Ixion - The United Sidecar Association

Transcription

Reminiscenses of MC - IXION
REMINISCENCES OF MOTOR CYCLING: ‘IXION’
First published 1920-1927 pp. 312
Here reprinted are two small volumes Motor Cycle
Reminiscences and Further Motor Cycle Reminiscences
written by ‘Ixion’ of ‘The Motor Cycle’ who was one of
the lead-ing motoring journalists.
The author recounts in these two titles, now reissued
as a single volume, his impres-sions of 30 years and
over 300,000 miles on the road. He was one of the first
motor cyclists when the general public regarded the
pioneers as incomprehensible lunatics, and no wonder, if
one reads the problems they had to overcome.
In the early days even the pedal cycle tended to be
faster, and the uplift beneath early motor cycling must
have been equiva-lent to a religion, or they would never
have borne its manifold disagreeables as they did. One
could divide these pioneers into three kinds, the engineers, the adventurers and those gambling on the commercial possibilities.
However, things soon improved and especially in
the second volume do the problems seem to become
less important and the pleasures far greater.
The work includes many fascinating cartoon drawings and some photographs, and all those interested in
early transport will find the works truly fascinating.
ISBN 0 85409 886 0 £3.00 NET
EP Publishing Limited Other titles include:
MOTOR CYCLE CAVALCADE
‘Ixion’
MY MOTORING REMINISCENCES S.F.
Edge
THE COMPLETE MOTORIST
A.B. Filson Young
ROLLS-ROYCE CATALOGUE 1910-11
£2.50
£3.50
£4.00
£10.00
INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE PRACTICAL WORKING OF TRACTION ENGINES AND ROAD ROLLERS
£1.00
SENTINEL STEAM WAGGONS Alley & MacLellan, Ltd. £2.00
BALLOONS’& AIRSHIPS A. Hildebrandt
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VELOCIPEDES
‘Velox’
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A ROYAL ROAD
S. Fay
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GREAT GREAT WESTERN
W.J. Scott
EP Publishing Limited
East Ardsley, Wakefield, Yorkshire
2
£1.50
Copyright © in this edition 1973
EP Publishing Limited
East Ardsley, Wakefield
Yorkshire, England
REMINISCENCES
OF MOTOR CYCLING
Reproduced by permission of the copyright holders,
Butterworth & Co. (Publishers) Limited
by
IXION
of
“The Motor Cycle”
This is a reprint of Motor Cycle Reminiscences and
Further Motor Cycle Reminiscences, both originally
published by Iliffe & Sons Ltd.
ISBN o 85409 886 o
ep
Being the Impressions of
Thirty Years and 300,000
Miles on the Road
Please address all enquiries to EP Publishing Limited
(address as above)
Printed in Great Britain by
The Scolar Press Limited, Menston, Yorkshire
1973
3
CONTENTS.
V. THE END TO END RECORD
51
CHAPTER.
PAGE
Arnott, Silver and Mills open a long procession - Ivan
Hart. Davies makes the course his own.
VI. TRICARS . .
59
INTRODUCTION .
9
The Phoenix Trimo - Primitive 9 h.p. projectiles I. A RAGBAG OF RECOLLECTIONS
.
14
Capsize or charge the hedge? - A merry starting
Rides on borrowed machines - My first motor bicycle
handle-the organ runabout.
- A quaint contract - The 2-3/4 h.p Excelsior - Trailers
VII. RELIABILITY TRIALS
66
and forecars - A De Dion quadricycle.
The “ fortnight “ trial of 1903-Leonard Jones’ “ perII. THE MOTOR BICYCLE IMPROVES. .
31
petual motion “ tricycle - Tom Sopwith on a tricar Foreign engines - Routine troubles - Rebuilding the
The first Edinburgh run - Hillclimbs in the early Six
machine - The crazy inventor - Big engines - TwoDay trials - The first End to End - The first flat twin speed gears - The first Triumph - Magneto ignition.
The first two-stroke - 1909 brings variable gears to the
III. HILLCLIMBING COMPETITIONS
.
37
front - The first Scottish Six Days - A holocaust on
Pedalling up Westerham - How the expert wins - Some
Amuiree - Adjustable pulleys - The Armstrong hub bad tumbles.
Overcrowded hotels - Finding the winners - The freak
hill policy - Strikes among the competitors.
IV. RACING ON ROAD AND TRACK . .
41
VIII. SIDECARS.
89
France at first supreme - 20 h.p. machines pacing
pushbikes - The International races - England out classed All men are faddists-The chivalry of the sidecar-the
- Brooklands and the T.T. - The Indian challenge.
flexible pattern-A duplex-steering sidecar-A castor
wheel type-Finality at last.
4
IX. ROADSIDE TROUBLES 94
Their compensations - Hillclimbing failures - Accumulator ignition - The “bootlace” belt - Dropping bits Shoddy engines - Prehistoric brakes - The first reliable
machines - The tyre bogey.
XII. ACCIDENTS .
122
The cherub who guards motorcyclists - The humorous
aspects - An axle collapse - Some sideslips - A steering gear which reversed - Pillion riding - A heresy
about cross roads - Cattle at night - Tyre bursts Speedman’s wobble.
X. INNS
107
How they add to the annual bill - The fashionable
caravan-serai-Evenings on tour - Motorcyclists not
wanted - The lift record-A mysterious light at a a.m. Our favourite houses-Riding in company:! - Accommodation troubles in a big trial - Picnics and camping.
XIII. LAMPS .
132
Early patterns - Carrying a spare lamp - Germany to
the rescue - One lamp to three men - A capsized
cyclecar - Why the subaltern’s electric outfit gave
trouble.
XI. ROADS .
‘.
115
How they have deteriorated - Potholes and their production - Good carpets on bad floors - The Scottsh
roadmender at work - The modern trials secretary and
his selection of a route - Sideslip - Reconstruction
inevitable.
XIV. THE PLEASURES OF MOTORCYCLING 139
All men are mechanics at heart - The element of danger
- Wanderlust - The motorcycle as a help to courtship Riding as an anaesthetic - The healthiness of the sport
- The liberty of the road - The railroad holiday - The
utilitarian machine.
5
INTRODUCTION.
THE other day I saw a revival of The Belle of New
York. Its cast includes a shabby lunatic who amongst
other eccentricities strolls into a candy store, interrupts
the lyrics of the spangled chorus, and orders a ton of
coal. The assembled knuts and flappers receive him,
with a bored, puzzled politeness. That is exactly how we
pioneer motorcyclists were regarded by the general
public twenty years ago-we were incompre-hensible
lunatics. Our room was preferred to our company, and
only persons with perfect manners forebore to tell us so.
Indeed, . unless we frightened people’s horses, they
were quite astoundingly polite to us. Our weird hobby
seemed to be without excuse or justification : it veneered
us with a permanent grime which, exceeded every known
form of filth alike in squalor and in adhesiveness. The
uncertainty of being able to start on a journey was only
exceeded by the improbability of our ever reaching our
des-tination in the saddle. We were unquestionably
doomed to spend long hours by the roadside, under
conditions that ranged from grilling sun to a frosty night,
from desperate solitude to a seething mob.
Introduction
Such times of penance were usually devoted to the
identification of some mystic ailment which afflicted our
machines. The odds in the first place were heavily
against our being able to trace the trouble; in the second
place the betting was equally strong against our being
able to remedy it, if found.
6
There were no garages; the longest push could only
bring us to the door of some ambitious cycle repairer,
more ignorant and less cautious than ourselves.
When it rained, we sideslipped and got drenched,
for our machines were wofully top-heavy, and the modern dreadnought clothing was not dreamt of. In winter
we suffered from frostbite. In summer our engines
over-heated. Our belts slipped and broke and pulled
through without partiality under all conditions ; the slip
which they developed in wet weather was not more
habitual than the glaze from which their leather suffered
when roads were dry and dusty. Most of us were excyclists; but such a hideous past was no palliation of our
folly. We could not claim that motorcycles were faster
than pushbikes; we often covered a few miles at a speed
which was then regared as suicidal-say 24 miles an hour
or so; but from” beginning to end of a cross-country
journey the prehistoric motorcycle was generally slower
than a scissors-grinder’s handcart. We could not claim
that we preferred the motorcycle for hillwork; for the
main difference between it and the pushbike where gradients were concerned, was that the latter was very distinctly easier to push. Economy could be no factor in
Introduction
our inexplicable conduct. A new machine might easily
cost £ 75 to buy. Its repair bill was long enough to stagger a munition magnate, and it was out-of-date soon after
it had been delivered. The most sympathetic student of
human nature might be pardoned for com-paring us to
the gentleman who carried a slice of toast with him under
the impression that he was a poached egg.
Now that the horse is all but extinct, I may inform
the curious that it was an observant, suspicious and
ignorant animal. When motorcycles first dawned on its
vision, it took careful stock of them. Several disturbing
points were immediately obvious. Motorcycles smelt
abom-inably. The men who accompanied them on the
roads were dreadful ruffians. Sometimes a motorcycle
might be met travelling at inconceivable velocities. On
other occasions, indeed more commonly, they were
found station-ary by the roadside. This latter attitude was
pure cunning, intended to entice unwary horses up to
close range before the noise and smell began. The new
monster was evidently a lethal projectile, a kind of bomb
on wheels; when it was in motion, you could hear the
clockwork whirring in its inside, and you would be half
deafened by its repeated efforts to detonate. We pro7
duced some such impression on the horses of our day.
The consequence was that when they sighted us
they immediately did an “ about turn “ and worked up to
maximum revolutions in an amazingly few yards. The
staidest old Dobbin would instantly become oblivious to
the presence of kind mistress and the family barouche
behind him. Many nasty accidents occurred as a result,
and timid horse owners became afraid to venture on the
roads.
In a somewhat different fashion we troubled human
nerves to an almost equal degree. People habitually
ignore any familiar noise - the roar of a night express 30
yards from their bedroom windows, or the grinding of
municipal trams over worn points at 5 a.m. - but the
instant they are subjected to some quite minor uproar of
Introduction
a novel character, they clamour for its suppression. An
aero engine factory opened a testing shed two miles
from a certain town during the war, and the town council
was almost lynched as a result. The prehistoric
motor-cycle did not really make a very tremendous
noise. It usually had a small and feeble engine, a large
silencer, and a silent transmission; if we except the
geardriven tricycles which certainly scrunched abominably after a little wear, the early engines made less noise
than some modern lightweight machines. But the pother
we used to cause! Pedestrians twisted round in their
tracks when we were half a mile away. People ran to their
windows to stare. Only a very Prussian foreman could
keep his hands at work when the unaccustomed “ tuttatutta “ in slow time was audible in the road. Presently
the public decided, as it always does, that a new noise
was an intolerable nuisance. Jeers or scowls became our
portion we knew what it was to have an elderly stranger
shake his fist at us in front of an empurpled and twitching countenance. Even our nearest and dearest could
furnish up no sort of defence for us. As far as was
possible they hushed up our delinquencies, and spoke of
our insane hobby behind closed doors and with bated
8
Introduction
breath, much as if we had cheated at cards or made an
unsuitable marriage.
rewards. The men who came in because of technical
interests have travelled farther than their dreams-many of
them are leading lights in aviation nowadays. The cycle
The uplift beneath motorcycling in those early days
agent who hoped to double his annual turnover very
must have been equivalent to a religion, or we should
never have borne its manifold disagreeables as we did. It probably owns acres of garages ere this. The sporting
youngster has a cabinet full of medals, and what is worth
was derived from three motives. Some of us were engimore than ten sideboards full of cups-a memory richly
neers; we may hardly have believed in the ultimate road
packed with reminiscences of effort, peril and fun, which
possibilities of a featherweight highspeed engine, but
may serve to keep his heart young when his limbs are
even if we privately regarded the machine as a product
stiff with age and rheumatism. So I pass on to some
of Bedlam, it was certainly an amusing little toy. Others
assorted memories, linking the dim age of the pioneer
gambled on its commercial possibilities. Others, again,
were adventurers, pure and simple. When there is no war motorcyclists to these times in which the machine threatens to become disgustingly utilitarian.
on, no filibustering in South America, no uncharted
islands to explore, this land of policemen and accurate
maps and black coats on Sundays is apt to bore a certain type of temperament. The purchase of a motorcycle
imported a spice of risk and uncertainty and
Bohemianism into such a life.’
So we were not quite as mad as we seemed, though
we were unquestionably odd. The proof of the pudding
is in the eating. Somehow or other we stuck to our job
or our hobby during the years which motorcycling spent
in the “ teething stage.” We have reaped our several
9
I. A RAGBAG OF RECOLLECTIONS
IN the early days I did not actually own a motorcycle. For one thing I was too poor; for another I was
too timid. Neither confession stirs any shame in me.
1. A Ragbag of Recollections
scrap-iron. I owed my first road experiences to rich and
foolish friends, and they usually confirmed my decision
not to own a machine.
Take the Bollee tandem for example. This ingenious
three-wheeler had a large air-cooled engine placed horizontally in line with the rear chainstays. Amidships was a
gigantic cavern, containing a three-speed sliding gear, the
shafts of which were supported in bearings attached to a
particularly buckly frame. The transmission from the
gearbox to the back wheel was by means of a short flat
belt, three inches wide; in lieu of a clutch the back wheel
was levered forward in the frame to slacken the belt
during gear changes.
The first motor bicycle I ever rode had its engine
insecurely perched on the top of the front mudguard; the
carburetter resembled a 2 lb. biscuit box full of lamp
wicks and petrol, and the ignition consisted of a platinum
tube kept red-hot by means of a petrol burner.
The contraption cost about £50 to buy, and perhaps
A run on this monstrosity was a hideous experience.
£1 a week to run. I was in at its death - it sideslipped on
At the outset the thing cajoled you by a twenty-mile
the grease in the Euston Road, leapt on top of its owner, nonstop. Then the gearshaft bearings got out of truth.
pummelled him severely, and catching fire burnt itself to
10
You uncovered the central cavern, and ladled in a hundredweight of grease with a large wooden spoon. Then
the cylinder began to glow redly. You took it off and
found the slots of all the piston rings in line. Then the
belt slipped. Then the belt broke. And so on.
Motoring on such a Pegasus was lively, even when
an expert accompanied the novice. Occasionally we
ventured abroad without a tutor. A gilded youth of my
acquaintance possessed a spider wheel machine, the
make of which escapes me. He called it his “victoria“
from the shape of its coachwork. He invited two of us to
travel out from Oxford to Bicester to dinner one summer
evening. The beastie did the outward journey nonstop.
Two hours later, full of meat and wine, we emerged into
the hotel yard to start the engine before an admiring
crowd of ostlers. Four hours later three sweating, wearied men had exhausted every known expletive, and still
the engine was mute. Finally she started. She ran rather
badly for four miles, and came to a standstill. The crew
disembarked, and wondered.
One of us struck some matches. By their fitful light
we spotted a wet stain on the road behind the car - in
fact, a wet trail leading Bicesterwards in the darkness.
“The water’s leaking,” quoth the skipper. The first mate
investigated the stain somewhat closely with a match.
Over the smouldering ashes we decided that the leakage
must have been petrol. See over....
With another novice I essayed a 50-mile trip on a
weird fourwheeler, having two wheels in the centre, one
in front, and one behind. I believe it was an Ariel tricycle,
with the rear half of a ladies’ bicycle attached to the back
axle, trailerwise. Anyway, it went uncommonly well. We
accomplished the outward journey without incident.
One mile back on the way home it stopped dead.
We discussed and surveyed for hours; but as neither of
us had the least notion as to the name of any part, or
even as to how the engine worked, we got no forrarder.
At last I discovered a small brass nut lying on the road
behind the machine. It might have fallen off the machine;
again, it might not. We decided to hunt for a vacant stud
or bolt. After three-quarters of an hour we spotted an
insignificant little thread projecting from a cone of white
china behind the tricycle saddle. Triumphantly we
screwed the brass nut back, and for the next half-hour
we pedalled the outfit madly up and down the road in
efforts to start the engine. Fate frowned on us. There
11
was nothing doing. Another dismount. Further discussion. At last my companion drew my attention to a rather
limp-looking wire, hanging down in rather detached
fashion from a small black coil.
“That looks as if it ought to be tied up somehow,”
he opined. It was my brain that leapt to the idea of attaching the wire by the brass nut to the porcelain cone.
Having thus unconsciously reconnected the ignition
circuit we got a start, and should have reached home
safely if the switch had not gone agley. Switches in those
days consisted of a flimsy contact operated by revolving
one of the handlebar grips.
Our switch had silently gone west, and Jehu failed to
stop the engine on a right-angled corner. A quadricycle,
upside down in a thorn- hedge with its up-turned wheels
appealing to Heaven, is a fearsome spectacle. see over
For some time after this I was promoted to the
pukka automobile world. My boon companion of those
days had a 3-1/2 h.p. car. It was a three-seater of sorts.
In lieu of a bonnet it had a small hassock surrounded on
three sides by a plated handrail.
“One of us struck some matches.... must have been petrol”
12
Hereon sat the front passenger, facing backwards.
Two normal stern seats completed the accommodation.
The water-cooled engine was accessibly mounted just
behind the nearside back wheel, which was thoughtfully
provided with wire spokes, so that the owner could get
at the contact breaker. Since the breaker required adjusting every ten miles, a special 2ft. screwdriver was wisely
included in the maker’s toolkit.
We made some special clips for attaching a push
bicycle to the rear panel of the body, for summoning
S.O.S. in the form of horses should emergencies arise.
This outfit really behaved tolerably well, and overcame my pristine distaste for motoring as a means of
serious locomotion.
The next motorcycle which came my way was a
bicycle with its power unit enclosed in a most colossal
back wheel, which was heavily dished for the purpose,
and had wide aluminium spokes. In two respects this
machine was ahead of its time. Alone amongst motors of
that day it had a reliable ignition, consisting of a low
tension magneto with make and break inside the cylinder.
Moreover it had a transmission devoid of belts, for the
engine drove the back wheel direct by spur gears. That
the noise of its progress would have put a worn-out
threshing machine to the blush was no oddity in those
days. I liked this mount much. It usually got there. But it
passed from my ken when its owner snapped two or
three of the back wheel spokes, and had to carry it three
miles to his home.
13
(1) Anzani on one of the early Anzani pacing machines. The
engines used in these were the forerunners of the Anzani
aviation engines which enabled Bl6riot to make the first
Channel flight, and were afterwards used in war machines.
(2) Marius The with a 1903 Buchet machine. Marius The
commenced riding for the Peugeot firm in 1895, being
mostly engaged in pacing cycle races.
(3) Oscar Hedstrom with one of the earliest Indian
machines.
(4) J. Van Hooydonk on the 1903 2-3/4 h.p. Phoenix with
Minerva engine. Mr. Hooydonk was one of the earliest trial
riders in this country, and was the designer of the Phoenix
Trimo, which was one of the first successful passenger
machines. It is shown on the illustration on page .
14
My First Machine.
The net result of such experiences as were narrated
in the last chapter was to imbue me with an enthusiasm
for motoring. I admit the implication against my sanity,
but there was no aviation in those days, and boys will be
boys. About this time I went to live in an extremely dull
country town, and for the first time my bank book revealed an idle £100. There was no garage or motor shop
in the town, no motorist in the neighbourhood. One day
I was passing one of the local cycle shops, when I
pulled up dead in my tracks. I heard an irregular,
stac-cato bark, such as oft sounded in my dreams. I
dived through an open door into a murk of blue fumes,
through which I dimly spied a pair of fat legs frenziedly
pedalling. The staccato bark ceased. The engine was
refusing to run without human assistance, and the cycle
agent had bellows to mend. Perched on a little plated
scaffold of steel legs I beheld the first Werner motor
bicycle fitted with a vertical single-cylinder engine in the
place still approved by modern design. I cut work for
the afternoon. I let Dora pace moodily up and down the
dim glades of the park till her patience evaporated till 9
p.m. I drank in technical knowledge by the bucketful.
That agent had been well primed. He had never so much
as seen a motor bicycle till the previous day, and he had
brought her down by train. But he impressed on me the
merits of a spray carburetter. He prated about coefficients of friction; showed me that the flat leather belt ran
on an engine pulley built up of renewable leather discs;
and almost coaxed my money out of the bank. In this
virgin intoxication one reflection alone saved me from
folly. That agent was compounded of fencing wire and
indiarubber; had I not often striven to outpedal him on a
pushbike? But his efforts to start the Werner had turned
his bronzed face peagreen, and striped it with grey.
Moreover, I was much taller than he was, and as he
pedalled the engine round on the stand, he looked like a
Guardsman jazzing on a rollerskate. I decided to sleep
on the transaction.
The next morning brought cunning. The technical
press (even in those days The Autocar was in being) had
informed me that the new Ormonde machine was quite
as taking as the Werner, and rather higher in the frame.
Moreover, Jinks was not the only cycle dealer in
Sleepington. Binks had surely heard of Jinks’ bold effort
to corner a new industry. I hied me to Binks, and was
15
closeted with him for a full hour. When I came out Binks
held my cheque for a large sum. The covenant between
us is worth setting out in detail; it may not be unique, but
its like has assuredly not been signed any time in the last
fifteen years.
i. Binks to supply me with a brand new it h.p. Ormonde,
as advertised, for a named sum (with apologies to
trade protection societies, I admit that this sum was
rockbottom cost price).
ii. Binks to retain possession of the said machine for
four full weeks after its arrival from the makers. (Binks
wanted to keep it in his window, against which countless noses were consequently flattened on market
days, and much trade resulted.)
iii. Binks to engage an experienced motor mechanic from
Coventry without delay.
iv. Said mechanic to be at my prior disposal whenever
required, at his union rate of pay, with no profit to
Binks. (Actually, on long runs this mechanic often
accompanied me. He only got 6d. an hour. He could
ride a pushbike almost as fast as the Ormonde could
be driven, and past experience suggested that his
presence might represent a genuine economy.)
v. My machine to be garaged and kept clean by Binks.
free of charge. (Whenever I wasn’t riding it, it lived in
his window, except when it required repairs. I rode
down to Binks’ shop on a pushbike when I intended
to go motorcycling, and the small boys in the
neighbourhood soon learnt to know me, so that I
usually reached the shop attended by an excited guard
of honour. - see below)
In due course the machine arrived. - So did the
motor mechanic. I became a personage. For some
weeks I reposed a childlike faith in that mechanic, which
later experience has led me to revise. His panacea for all
motoring troubles was to grind in the float needle of the
carburetter, a job which no modern expert ever attempts.
He it was too who after a long push home, thanks to an
exhausted accumulator, led me to invest eighteen shillings in a spare cell in a leather case ; the acid leaked,
16
devoured the leather case, and destroyed the nearside
half of my trousers. So far as I could recollect, the
Ormonde gave very little trouble. Its steering was badly
laid out, and the machine would lie down in the road
when the first drops of rain moistened the surface. The
sparking plug was located just under my right thigh, and
gave me fearful shocks if I thoughtlessly gripped the tank
with my knees in a bit of daring corner-work. The accumulator ran down at short intervals, and the contact
breakers of those days reminded one of a watch made
out ‘of putty. The Vee-shaped leather belt did not relish
its job. Still we never came home by train. We were
seldom punctual. In fact, we thought nothing of being
two or three days late for an appointment. But we generally arrived in the end. Lamps were a nuisance. In those
days motor-cycle lamps had spring backs of the
pushbike type, and these springs. usually collapsed on
the first ride. ‘You then jammed the hinges apart. with
bits of wood, cut from the hedge, converting the clip
into a rigid attachment. Then the lampglass, burner,
reflector and carbide chamber fell off in the order
named. For this reason I usually took the mechanic with
me on night jaunts. I carried an acetylene lamp on my
bracket, and an oil lamp in a haversack. When my acetylene lamp collapsed, I borrowed his, and he took the oil
lamp. When gaslamp No. 2 gave up the ghost, I took the
oil lamp, and he hung on to my back wheel. It was arranged that I should pay his fines.
But I came to understand that I had put my money
on the wrong horse. The Ormonde was grossly underpowered for the local hills, which were neither scarce nor
easy. Jinks, the hated rival agent, soon got down a 2
h.p. Quadrant, which romped up our pet test-hill (half a
mile of 1 in 17) coram bopulo, without light pedal assistance. I bade Binks order me a Quadrant. But Jinks had
secured the exclusive agency. Then Jinks went one
better, and procured a 2-3/4 h.p. Excelsior, about which
Douglas Fawcett, the chess expert, philosopher, motor
mountaineer, and novelist, was already publishing impassioned paeans. This powerful monster was obviously
capable of pulling a trailer. By this time Dora’s successor
had arrived. Binks dismally confessed that Jinks had
collared the sole agency for Excelsiors. The die was
cast. A bas Binks! I transferred my custom to Jinks, and
ordered an Excelsior.
17
The 2-1/2 h.p - Excelsior.
The Excelsior machine with M.M.C. engine temporarily saved the juvenile motorcycle industry from extinction. It scaled about 220 lbs., could easily romp up hills
like Dashwood at high speed, and was capable of 45
miles an hour on the level. Of course, it was topheavy
and prone to sideslip. Its V-shaped belt gave continual
trouble in dusty or wet weather. Its ignition was disfigured by the usual unreliable contact-breaker and accumulator. Nevertheless mine carried me some 15,000 miles
without undue delay and without a single recourse to the
railway. Its debut was not encouraging. I was then at the
impressionable age, and it seemed desirable to furnish
accommodation for an occasional flapper. The makers
rashly guaranteed that their 2-3/4 h.p. engine - a giant for
those days and bigger than some modern 3-1/2 h.p.’s would carry two people anywhere. The sidecar had not
then been invented and the trailer was our custom. Now
a trailer at the best does not lend itself to ardent affection
in travel. Most of us used pushbike trailers, and their
connections used to break. In dry weather we glanced
astern every half mile or so to see that all was well. On
greasy roads we dare not take our eyes off the going,
and periodic shouts of “Are you there, darling ?“ were
the rule. One day I gave the code call, and there was no
voice nor any that answered.
The trailer bar had snapped, and Arabella had turned
a neat back somersault, chair and all, landing heavily on
her bustle against the hard high road. This incident led to
ultimatums. I must either give up the motor, or give up
18
Arabella. She would never again occupy a trailer. Neither
would she trust me or spare me to career about the
countryside alone; blue-eyed Devonshire maidens with
creamy complexions were too numerous and too charming. I weighed my - demarche, don’t the diplomatists
call it? At this stage the Excelsior traveller came down to
our burg. I confided in him piteously. With a flourish he
produced a folder illustrating “Our new forecar.” I denuded the bank coffers, and ordered one.
Presently the outfit arrived. The motor bicycle had
been converted into a tricarriage by removing the front
wheel, and attaching a two-wheeled axle with a basket
chair slung upon it. The steering was coupled up to the
bicycle front forks, and the front chassis was fixed to
the front down tube of the cycle frame by a single clip
resembling a human fist executed in metal. I tested the
beast for the first time with the chair empty. It created a
huge sensation on our boulevards, and I felt convinced
that Arabella would surrender to it at sight; moreover
there was every hope that I could occasionally lean
forward and kiss her ear, at least on good roads. Steering it onehanded and sucking a big cigar I abandoned
myself and my new purchase to the unstinted admiration
of the populace.
Alas! That infernal clip slipped round the down tube
of the cycle frame. The forecar did a half-left turn, the
cycle frame remaining as you were, and the outfit capsized noisily against some iron railings at the foot of the
hill. Arabella did not witness this catastrophe, but she
heard of it, and we parted. I replaced the bicycle wheel,
and rode solus for weeks.
As the times went, that machine served me nobly. I
substituted a metallic wipe contact and a trembler coil
for the original ignition, and so long as I kept the
accumu-lator up to snuff, the belt remained the sole
anxiety. She accomplished such formidable trips as the
entire circuit of the county of Devon in a day; and on a
blazing June day she travelled from Cornwall to London
19
between sunrise and sunset. But she certainly possessed
an insatiate appetite for belts.
In those days most machines were propelled by
what was vulgarly known as a “bootlace“ - Anglice, a
long nar-row strip of raw hide, twisted into rotundity,
and jointed by a miniature meathook. They had their
points. If they stretched, you unhooked them, and
twisted them up a little tighter. If they pulled through at
the hook, you unravelled them a few turns, and hey,
presto I they became longer. On the other hand, a combination of a steep hill, a wet pulley, and a 2-3/4 h.p.
engine caused them to roar idly over their pulleys with a
charred sort of smell. Just then Dawson of Lincoln
introduced a V belt with copper stitching. It was about
as pliable as a crowbar, and it was a sheer miracle that it
ever wrapped round our pulleys, which were about as
big as a doll’s saucer. After each spin we took them off,
anointed them “with various glutinous and perfumed
dopes, and somehow made them grip. Nevertheless I
found it advisable to carry two spares on a long run. To
climb a mile of 1 in 10 gradient demanded tactics in
those days. You paused at the foot to cool the engine
and overhaul the belt. Then you made a rush. If the belt
held out, you usually got up, for the engine was by no
means bad. As a rule the belt began to slip. The next
phase consisted of standing on the pedals, and whirling
your legs round in an invisible blur. After a hundred
yards of such light exercise, you resembled a dugout
colonel after being kissed in the Strand by an Australian
private on Armistice Night. You dismounted, lay down at
the roadside, and panted stertorously. Breath recovered,
you surveyed the vicinity, and spotted a sideroad, entering the hill at an angle. After tightening the belt, you
charged madly down this byroad, and so got a fresh run
at the hill. By repeating this process you got to the top in
penny numbers with your clothes soaked in perspiration,
and a strained valve in your heart.
Lycett of Birmingham then entered the belt trade. He
wooed our custom in judiciously phrased advertisements. It was bad enough, he said, to be stalled on a hill
with a slipping belt. Yet the best belt - even a Lycett must slip on occasions. How comforting, when such
contretemps occurred, not to need a gimlet and penknife
to refix the belthook. Buy a Lycett belt. It has a dozen
metal-eyeletted holes at each end. Chop off one eyelet,
and slip the hook in another hole. I took his advice.
20
Unfortunately the frequent perforations weakened the
leather incredibly. After the patent belt had been in use a
week, repeated fractures had shortened the main length
incredibly, and the belt now consisted of innumerable
tiny pieces joined together by countless hooks. I reverted to the Lincona.
I soon found consolation for Arabella’s faithlessness, and reattached the forecar securely by means of a
double clip which clasped the saddle pillar tube of the
bicycle as well as the front down tube. Incredible as it
may seem, two of us travelled over many hilly parts of
England on this single geared 2-3/4 h.p. two-seater. We
picked our roads with some discretion, avoiding Sutton
Bank, and Sunrising. On a hill like Dashwood, we commenced operations by a furious rush, which lasted perhaps 300 yards. Then the passenger dismounted, and the
pair of us pushed off again. One walked to the top,
whilst the other ran alongside, pedalled, or enjoyed brief
spells in the saddle where the grade eased for a few
yards. We re-united at the summit. Small wonder that the
surviving pioneers all suffer from heart trouble.
Finally let it be remembered that in those days a
brand of petrol which was better than modern aviation
spirit cost us about 9d. per gallon, plus carriage. Our only
carburetter consisted of a small compartment in the tank,
in which a few inches of petrol were allowed to slosh
about, being fed with air through a tap. The engine sucked
at the resultant vapour, and appeared to like it. Nothing
ever went wrong with the carburation, except when a
patch of rough road caused the petrol to slosh too freely,
and temporarily made the mixture somewhat too rich.
There was a brief scare in our garages when the Midland
Railway took alarm over a consignment of petrol which
caught fire en route. They demanded that consignees
should sign an unlimited indemnity note, pledging themselves to rebuild St. Pancras Station if necessary. For a
few weeks there was a petrol famine, and then the railways
climbed down. Never again shall I buy such petrol at such
a price.
A Speed King Quadricycle
After several years as a country cousin, and various
interludes with different bikes and trikes (none of which
equalled the Excelsior), I returned to London, where
motors were by now mildly plentiful; the streets and
show-rooms afforded a more comprehensive survey of
21
the industry than the press and the provinces had supplied. My next purchase demonstrates the whole philosophy of salesmanship. I was idling down the Euston
Road when I beheld a secondhand Dennis quadricycle in
one of the dealers’ shops in that thoroughfare. I was still
a novice, and need not conceal the fact that its gleaming
aluminium mudguards drew me into the shop - so much
do appearances count with motorists in their salad days.
Once inside, the salesman grappled me to his soul with
hooks of steel. What was I riding? A motor bicycle. Was
its engine high up? Rather. Did it skid? I should say so.
Had I prostrated myself beneath a bus yet? No? Well,
one never knows. Had it a free engine? How did I like
restarting it every half minute in a traffic block? “Now
this ‘ere quad. Cawn’t sideslip-four wheels, y’know. A
smart young feller like you’s sure to have a sweetheart.
Now trailers is orl right: but what they want is a twospeed gear. Ladies doesn’t like ’avin’ to walk up the
‘ills. This ‘ere quad ‘as a two-speed gear. ‘Ops up
Sunrising, it does, like nothing on earth. Then
motor-bikes hover’eats suthin’ shocking. Put ‘em at a
‘ill, and yer ‘ear their pistons a ‘ammerin’ and ‘ammerin
fit to bust theirselves. This quad engine is watercooled.
Climbing she fair• revels hin.”
My salad days were not yet ended, and I fell. £55
was the price. The bus had originally cost £130, and
except for the tyres was in excellent order. The man was
a liar of the first water, but considered as a profiteer, he
was the merest amateur. I owe him no grudge.
This quad survived to transport me and a variety of
fairies over many thousand miles. Its worst trick was a
habit of shedding the fork which actuated the low gear.
As this fork was situated at the extreme tail of the machine, its loss was never noticed, until a hill called for
low gear, when the lever would be thrown over, and the
machine would slowly conk out, still on top gear. As the
gear was of French make, and the factory in Paris ignored every S.O.S., the only remedy was to haul the
machine round and drive back, eyeing the road already
traversed till the fork was found. The salesman had said
she could not skid. Injudicious braking, especially on
tramlines, caused her to do “ wheels “ worthy of a
Guards battalion under inspection by the King. There are
skids and skids. The most dangerous vehicle I ever
owned was a 3-1/2 h.p. Renault car which resembled the
Holy City in that the length and the breadth and the
22
height of it were equal. On a grassy road this voiturette
would spin round like a Drury Lane columbine, being
seen only as a faint blur. Second to it for skidding propensities came several high-powered tricars built about
1906, which would face about in their tracks like a soccer wing man of international class. But the old quad was
capable of wheels and right-abouts which absolutely
took one’s breath away. On the other hand, her centre of
gravity was so low that she never upset; and in the early
days of motoring that was sufficient reason for thanksgiving.
She was convertible into a tricycle by the simple
process of unbolting the long sidebars which held the
fore-carriage, and sticking a spare wheel between her
front forks. In this guise she was a perilous mount indeed. The engine and gearbox were slung at the extreme
rear, behind the axle, like the bustle of a Victorian belle.
Above them was a huge cylindrical plated tank, containing oil, water, and petrol, as big as the barrel of an eighteen-pounder field-gun, and nearly as heavy. To balance
this bulky tail there was nothing in front but a pair of
forks and a light wire wheel. If one stood behind the
machine and hooked a forefinger under the saddle, it was
possible to pull the whole contraption over backwards. I
did not understand this till I gave a small boy a joyride
on the bridge of the back axle. We came to a steepish
hill, slowed down, and toppled slowly over backwards.
If the trike front wheel hit a large stone in the road at
speed, the front wheel would lift about a foot into the air,
and we would career along like a racing hydroplane in
the bay at Monaco poised on our extreme tail.
Uphill the quad was nominally a two-speeder. Normally she was a one-speeder, for the low gear fork was
generally missing when wanted. (I got over this by commissioning a friend in Paris to visit the Dupont works
with a revolver, and not to quit until he had extracted a
dozen forks from the proprietor.) But in practice she
might rely on six speeds, viz.
1. Top gear, crew on board.
2. Bottom gear, crew on board.
3. Bottom gear, driver - running alongside.
4. Bottom gear, crew running.
5. Bottom gear, driver pushing and crew running.
6. Bottom gear, entire crew pushing.
23
If we utilized all six speeds, we could climb any hill.
I use the word “ running “ above, but on sober reflection I
must substitute the term “ walking,” for she was no flier at the
best of times. She scaled a good quarter of a ton. Her engine was
about 2-3/4 h.p. The epicyclic gear was a regular sponge for
sopping up horsepower. On the level against a strong headwind,
we had to force her hard if we wished to average twelve miles an
hour, which, by the way, was the legal maximum in those days .
T. Silver on the 1904 Quadrant. Mr. Silver has been associated with Quadrant machines from the very earliest days. He
made the End to End record of 1903, and in 1904 made a six
thousand mile tour across South Africa. Note the silencer of the
engine placed immediately under the tank to warm up the surface
carburetter. The other machines are :- >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
(1) The 1903 Singer with complete power unit in the back wheel
and open frame for ladies.
(2) The 1903 Bat, one of the earliest machines to employ spring
suspension the saddle and footrests were bothh sprung so as
to insulate the rider from road shocks.
(3) The 1903 Ormonde. M. Kelecom, who designed and built the
engines for the Ormonde machines, afterwards designed all the
F,N, machines.
24
II. THE MOTOR BICYCLE IMPROVES.
AFTER I sold the quad described in the last chapter
the motor industry began to advance, and machines
became comparatively reliable. British engines were still
practically unknown, and such imported units as the
Minerva, the Kelecom, and the Peugeot were still our
favourites. If any ambitious trader wanted to start a
motor business, he would scour France and Belgium in
the hope of unearthing a promising engine of which no
English firm had yet been granted the agency. During this
period I owned a number of machines which I will bury
in a generous oblivion. The 3-1/2 h.p. Ormonde stands
out in memory as the true precursor of the splendid
machines of to-day. Its Belgian engine gave out lashings
of power, and its low, central mounting rendered the
machine steady in grease. The frame was well-designed,
and the spring handlebar afforded a comfort such as was
rare ten years later. Such a machine had three main
snags. The accumulator ignition was a source of constant trouble. As the battery was packed in a compartment of the metal tank, short circuits were always easy to
come by, whilst vibration was apt to loosen the paste on
the grids. The wiring was flimsy, and the contact-breaker
2. The Motor Bicycle Improves
beneath contempt. Secondly, the leather belt was bound
to give trouble at short intervals. Dust glazed its sides,
and rain robbed it of all pretence at a grip on steel pulleys. Lastly, the absence of a two-speed gear made hillclimbing a very chancy business.
Riders in those days never expected a no-trouble
run; never hoped to climb really bad hills without considerable muscular exertion ; and never thought of complaining. The hobby was regarded in the same light as
modern warfare. It was a laborious adventure, not without many compensations for a hardy spirit. Let me
recount the sort of incident which befel.
Greatly daring, I adventured a 1,000 mile holiday
tour. The casualties of the first two days were limited to
contact-breaker adjustments and frequent tinkerings with
the belt. On the third day the engine commenced to run
hot, and the maximum speed fell to about 20 miles an
hour, in lieu of the 35 to 40 which were ordinarily procurable. The ignorance of the average rider was so profound that it was our custom to plod along, puzzling
things out as we rode. I probably covered 60 miles or so
at an ever decreasing crawl before I noticed that the
25
exhaust valve was hardly lifting at all. Off came the
timing gear cover, and I discovered that the tappet had
eaten through the casehardening of the cam, the hump of
which was rapidly disappearing. Fortunately I carried
spare cams - think of it, ye modern riders - and in an
hour I was speeding on again. The next day one of the
timing pinions sheared the pin securing it to the shaft. I
carried spare pins of silver steel, and this was soon
remedied. The next day a valve snapped off at the neck
and went clean through the piston. I telegraphed for
spares, and spent the period of waiting in fitting a trap
which should henceforth imprison fractured valves in the,
valve chest. The next day the rear wheel collapsed; this,
of course, any cycle repairer could build.
ward cause him no trouble, except for belt and ignition
stops which, like the poor, were always with us. So it
was with my Ormonde. I fitted a stronger back wheel;
interposed levers between the cams and the tappets;
inserted pins of good steel in the timing gears; got some
new valves made of different metal; and found myself
the owner of the best machine in the country.
One humorous interlude followed. A certain inventor
tried to grapple with our eternal belt troubles, and caught
me in an idiotic mood. He designed a flat belt of leather,
which was forbidden to stretch by steel plates stitched to
its top side with copper rivets. He further proposed to
eliminate slip by securing short crosspins of tough steel
to the metal plates, and machining little nicks in the edges
of both pulleys to engage the projecting ends of the
crosspins. He induced me to let him fit this horrible
Reconstruction.
At this era it was proverbial that soon after purchase transmission to my machine. Since it could neither
stretch nor slip, and was too weak to stand the dig of the
you encountered a “ trouble stage “ with each new maengine, it incontinently snapped asunder, and its flail-like
chine. The fool would lose patience, sell the machine,
and repeat the experience with his new mount. The wise end gashed a deep furrow in my calf.
man entered into the causation of his troubles, redeThis wound was *a greater catastrophe than apsigned or recon-structed the faulty detail, and found
peared at the time. At this period at least two firmshimself in possession of a motor which would hencefor- Humber and Phelon and Moore-had constructed quite
26
sound chain-driven machines, which vastly reduced the
frequency of transmission troubles. But the scar on my
leg prejudiced me against rigid drives. Be it understood
that it was impossible for manufacturers to tell the candid truth in those days. Not a single machine could ever
have been sold if the trade had frankly informed customers of the exhausting and humiliating experiences which
awaited them on the road. Consequently those of us who
knew a little assumed a most cynical attitude towards
advertise-ments and catalogues. I inspected the Humber
chain system. I reflected that it would certainly neither
stretch nor slip. Ergo, I deduced, it will break. Now I
would rather play with a belt, a gimlet and a penknife,
than tinker with a chain which has dissolved into its
component bits. So I foolishly gave Humber machines a
very wide berth, not realizing that in time to come chain
drives might reign supreme.
some 5 h.p. Peugeot twin-cylinder engines of the V type,
and mounted them in excellent frames. He fitted a French
spring fork, the Truffault, which if ugly was smoother
than many, which survive to this day. Incidentally he
reduced the belt troubles, because the big engine could
stand a big pulley, and a big pulley gave a better grip.
This machine was a regular roarer for those days. With a
frenzied rush it could get up almost any main road hill.
Its chief weakness was the automatic action of the inlet
valves. When we learnt that they must both have equal
springs of a certain strength, and open exactly 3/32 in.
we were able to enjoy life. Speaking from memory, this
very fast mount can hardly have weighed more than 170
lbs.
At the same time other enthusiasts were feeling after
two-speed gears. J. Van Hooydonk evolved an epicyclic
two-speed hub. Once again excessive caution betrayed
me. Soured by six or eight years of continuous
A Regular Roarer.
break-downs I took the line that every motor is bound to
Meanwhile various earnest men were trying to progive trouble. He who would live long and see good days
vide us with better hill-climbing. W. H. Wells, now of
should select machines which admit of roadside repairs.
Indian fame, launched a most taking machine. His motto Perhaps I was wise. Hooydonk’s gear has long been as
was that hill-climbing required horsepower. So he bought extinct as the dodo; but he certainly got some good
27
work out of it ; maybe he produced a new hub every
time he rode in competition-he is far too crafty to confess, even at this long last.
realized these defects, and set their metallurgists to work.
Year by year they have eliminated every possible cause
for criticism, and to-day they enjoy such public confidence as few firms in any industry can command.
About this time our main tribulation was removed by
British Engines Forging Ahead.
the introduction of magneto ignition. None but veterans
About now, British engines were gradually coming
can realize how the magneto has transfigured motoring.
into being, and heralding these modern days in which
Yards of wiring ; inconceivably vulnerable batteries ;
British aircooled engines are stupor mundi: I have already spoken of the Humber and P. and M. The Minerva contact-breakers as complex as a clock and as soft as
butter ; such had been our ignition in the past. In its
engines from Antwerp were still the knuts’ choice. But
place we were suddenly furnished with a compact, workthe little 2-1/2 h.p. J.A.P. engine, clipped beneath the
front down tube of a light frame, pointed onwards to the manlike little device which would last a season with no
more attention than a few drops of oil. We regarded the
day when a big overhead valved J.A.P. became every
sportsman’s dream. Then the Triumph people produced magneto with horrible suspicion for a full year. One trade
magnate, who still survives, used angrily to strip it off all
a little 3 h.p. of their own manufacture, built into the
frame on modern lines. They will forgive my saying after his motors, and fit up an accumulator and coil at considerable expense. But its obvious merit triumphed. The
all these years that the first engine of their make that I
motorcycle was now waiting for a better transmission
owned was un-commonly bad. Delightful when new, it
rapidly weakened down to the power of a cat and a half. and a hill-climbing gear.
Its soft valves pitted and scaled and warped with incredible re.pidity. After 500 miles the compression became a Propaganda Work.
minus quantity, and you could hardly get enough suck
Presently I left the London district, and in various
on the carburetter to start the engine up. But the firm
hilly districts I learnt in my marrow and muscles that the
28
single-geared machine was practically useless in Wales
and the west and the north. Further it was obvious that
such districts opened a special field to the motorcycle if
only it could climb hills. Railway services were either
bad or non-existent. Horsed transport was slow.
Pushbikes implied too much walking where steep gradients abounded. A knot of enthusiasts set ourselves to
preach two-speed gears. The technical press assisted us
eagerly. We got hold of various crude gears, and set
ourselves to exploit them in all the trials. This missionary
work bore rapid harvest. Nearly all the early gears were
chain driven, and most of them were very bad. They
were generally innocent of shock-absorbing devices, so
that the chain transmission tore both engine and frame to
pieces. In one season I destroyed three frames and bent
four crankpins, but won plenty of gold medals in the
intervals between smashes. Before long the designers
were converted, and the future was assured.
29
III. HILL-CLIMBING COMPETITIONS.
IN the early days of motorcycling the blue riband of
hill-climbing was organized by a cycling club (the
Catford C.C.) and was run off at Westerham. In these
days, when the winners of the 3-1/2 h.p. classes at hillclimbs ascend at a mile a minute (if the road permits) it is
odd to remember that a Catford winner often pedalled
hard most of the way up to assist his engine, and that
trade riders sometimes stuck ingloriously half way up the
hill. My most anxious moments occurred in the yard of
the Crown Hotel at the foot of the hill. Number plates
had just come in, and were regarded very seriously by
the police. I rode my own bus to the venue, where the
foreman of the running shed was to meet me with three
different bicycles, on which I was entered in as many
classes. My own private machine was numbered, let us
say, XY999. When I arrived an interesting and enthusiastic crowd was assembling in the Crown yard. Pushing
into it, I discovered the foreman trying to explain to the
local constable the legality of having three machines all
numbered XY999; XY999 No. 4, made itself scarce at
some speed.
Pedalling in hill-climbs soon became unnecessary,
3. Hill-Climbing Competitions
but the speed was still far short of modern standards.
For example, I once made the fastest time of the day on
a hill which demanded my bottom gear for the bulk of
the distance; and that gear was 9 to 1. Special racing
machines were practically unknown. The entry usually
consisted of genuinely standard engines, carefully if
unintelligently tuned by their owners. As a proof of this I
once bought a machine from an agent, entered it in a hillclimb, and beat the firm’s three trade riders with consummate ease, the reason being that all of them imagined
that they should use high gears, whereas I innocently
rode on standard touring ratios, which happened to suit
the grade. Before many years had passed hill-racing rose
to a fine art. The man who wanted to win any climb
except an obscure provincial club event had first of all to
get the factory at his back and buy or borrow a picked
engine. Secondly, he had to tune the machine to the limit
of its efficiency. Thirdly, he had-if possible-to guess or
wangle the whereabouts of the secret venue, and adjust
his gear and carburetter setting to the hill. Fourthly, he
had to practise lightning starts, thereby snatch-ing several
fifths of a second from less clever competitors. Fifthly,
he had to walk up and down the hill several times, study
30
the corners, and make careful mental notes of any ruts or
rough places which might throw out his steering. Sixthly,
he had to tuck his body up into the smallest possible
compass, so as to reduce wind resistance. Seventhly he
had to risk his neck as soon as his machine gathered
pace. Victory was partly a matter of risking a bad crash
through tackling a bend at dangerous speed. When the
Auto-Cycle Union found a right-angled bend on a grade
of 1 to 4 in Sir Philipson Stow’s grounds at Haslemere,
they thought they had unearthed a regular machinestopper of a climb; but the very first year certain
single-geared machines came up so fast that they could
not take the corner at all; the daring jockeys plunged
clean off the road, towered up between the pine stumps,
and rejoined the twisty road higher up.
Falling with Safety.
Accidents became tolerably frequent, but seldom
had any serious results. A racing motorcyclist usually
falls as softly and as safely as a baby or a drunken man,
and for similar reasons. The baby or the toper has not
the wit to stiffen his limbs instinctively when a crash is
imminent ; a motorcyclist has not the time. The finest
“save” I ever witnessed was achieved by a sporting
parson in a provincial event. The hill was easy, and the
cleric was riding a big twin-cylinder Zenith. He streaked
over the crest at a mile a minute, and then steered into a
rut. His machine went over, and as he was flung clear, he
curled his body up into a ball, with his head tucked well
into his stomach. He bowled along the road for yards
like a tennis ball, but took all the shock on his shoulders
and sit-upon, so that he was not a penny the worse.
The A.C.U. had rather a penchant at one time for
setting fast machines to race up dangerous hills. One
year, when speeds were becoming rather furious, they
picked Willersey Hill, which is not very steep, and has a
nasty corner half-way up. Amongst the spectators there
figured a veteran rider, who had been abroad for some
years, and was quite unaware of the pace which he was
about to witness. He stationed himself at the foot of the
hedge on the outside of the bad corner. Neither friends
nor officials could persuade him ‘to change his position.
He grew a little nervous after a few of the juniors had
roared past, but pride forbade him to move. Presently
the 7-9 h.p. riders began to come up. One of them tried
to take the corner at 50 m.p.h. and charged clean
31
through the hedge just where Tom was seated. Tom
disappeared backwards in a cloud of dust. We tore to
the rescue. One of the footrests had just skimmed the
skin off Tom’s neck from front to back.
Now that the smallest passenger machines make light
of shale-strewn goat tracks in the Welsh or Scottish
mountains, it seems incredible that hills which a
pushcyclist can ride used to puzzle all two-seated motorcycles. In 1904 teams of six riders from various clubs
fought out a club championship over an easy course
near Banbury. One machine in each team had to be of
the passenger type. The worst hill on the route comprised 600 yards of 1 in 10 or so. Practically all the
passenger outfits stuck on the hill. The Coventry Club
secured the cup by the astute plan of entering a racing
man on a powerful bicycle with a small passenger in a
very light trailer; and this outfit ‘iad precious little to
spare on the hill.
So far as open hill-climbs are concerned, the old
man and the amateur have had their day. A would-be
winner must be absolutely devoid of nerves, and cannot
hope to achieve much on standard machines. There is no
dis-honesty in the preparation of special engines for the
game. The machine which will streak up a mile climb at
from 40 to 60 miles an hour is not of a type which will
be pleasant for touring work; and if it were sold indiscriminately to the public, few men are fitted to’ride it.
Road-racing has developed into a- highly dangerous
sport, demanding physical and mental qualities which are
the property of the few, and which increasing years
rapidly impair. The career of the road racer resembles
that of the prize-fighter. New men flash into fame, stay a
year or two at the top of the tree, and swiftly pass into
the ranks of the has-beens. Some of them face the facts
with a good grace. A few try to prolong their waning
courage with whiskey, and only hasten the inevitable
downfall. After the twenty-fifth birthday only one man in
a thousand can continue to race on motorcycles and
display any real skill. The strain is as great as that of
flying a scout aeroplane over the lines.
32
IV. RACING ON ROAD AND TRACK.
M OTORCYCLE racing resembles the handling of a
fighting scout aeroplane in that it is a game at which only
youngsters can hope to excel. Until 1905 or thereabouts
road-racing was practically non-existent in Great Britain,
and track-racing was mainly confined to a small handful
of professionals, amateurs showing little or no interest.
The chief function of the racing motorcyclist in those
days was to pace pushbikes on the track, mainly in
France. The pedal cycle had not then degenerated into a
purely utilitarian machine,. and vast sums were still being
expended on advertising the various makes, whilst millions of people were genuinely interested in the sporting
aspects.
The Parc des Princes track in Paris maintained a
large programme of events, and men like Cissac thought
nothing of evolving leviathan motorcycles, sometimes of
20 h.p. Large windshields were fitted at the back of these
pacing monsters, behind which the pushcyclist pedalled
furiously in a vacuum which almost sucked him along.
Occasionally two or three of these monsters would visit
England, but our tracks were too gently banked to hold
them. A few trade riders, notably the brothers Collier,
4. Racing on Road and Track
Harry Martin, the brothers Chase, Yates, Crundall and S.
Wright used to contest events for small engines on the
tracks at Canning Town and the Crystal Palace. Indeed,
the race meetings of most cycling clubs used to sandwich one or two motorcycle events between their
pedalling events, even when nothing better than a grass
track roped off in a field was available. Needless to say,
the sport was poor, and the effect on design nil. At this
time the French manufac-turers and riders easily headed
the industry.
Early Speed Trials.
The Irish Gordon-Bennett race for cars in 1903 was
followed by speed trials in Phoenix Park, and the British
makers began to realize that racing was both a first-class
advertisement, and also an intensified method of developing good engines. From this event onwards a few
enthusiasts commenced serious efforts to foster racing
in the teeth of much inertia on the part of the trade and
the public. In August, 1904, the Motor-Cycle Club of
France offered a valuable cup for an international race at
eight weeks’ notice. France would have won in any case,
but so brief an interval gave us no chance to prepare. A
33
course of 168 miles in five laps near Dourdan was selected, and the French club held eliminating trials on
September 11 over the actual course. Thirteen riders
contested the three places, which were all secured by
Griffon machines, the winner averaging 46.5 miles an
hour - a fine feat for those days. We selected
Hodgkinson on a Jap, Rignold on a Lagonda, and Silver
on a Quadrant, and all three firms found it very difficult
to get down to the stipulated weight of 108.5 lbs.
France, Austria, Great Britain, Denmark and Germany
were represented in the race on September 26, though
only eleven men started. Of our team Rignold was the
only man with racing experience, and he was a track
rather than a road man. None of the three threatened
danger. Demester on a Griffon won comfortably in slow
time, but Vondrick on an Austrian Laurin-Klement gave
the Frenchmen a rare fright.
were big twins, despite the 108.5 lbs. weight limit imposed by the French. G. A. Barnes actually produced a
V twin measuring 94 x 100 mm., but it was almost
unstartable, and when it got going, generally split its
pulley or tore the spokes out of its back wheel. Nobody
realized that reliability is the first essential in racing; the
machines were far too flimsy, and the engines much too
big. Barnes even got a fretsaw and cut a lot of leather out
of his tiny saddle. At the last moment the course was
altered, as the machines could not manage the two hairpins on the climb from Ramsey up Snaefell. In the race a
very poor standard of reliability was shown. Only two
machines (Campbell’s Ariel and H. A. Collier’s Matchless) completed five laps before the roads were opened
at 8 a.m. The speed was rather less than 30 m.p.h.
Franklin and Rignold (reserve) on Japs were chosen to
complete the team. Needless to say, we were completely
outclassed in the International, which was won by the
Austrian Vondrick at more than 50 m.p.h.
Choosing British Champions.
In 1906 five entries were secured for the eliminating
This humiliation did us good. In 1905 we began
trials, and at one time it seemed that no course would be
preparations in good time, and the eliminating trials to
choose a team of three were run off in the Isle of Man on available, but Lord Derby finally offered a five-mile
May 29. Nineteen machines- were entered, most of which course in Knowsley Park. C. R. Collier completed 27
34
laps at an average speed of 40 m.p.h. H. A. Collier and
C. B. Franklin completed the team. We were again defeated, if not disgraced. The International was run off on
Austrian soil at Patzau. Harry Collier finished third,
nearly half an hour behind the winning Puch. It was
rather a free-and-easy race, for though the rules stipulated that only competing machines were allowed on the
course, the Austrian riders were assisted by racing sidecars full of spare parts and tyres! Our protest was naturally turned down.
Road Racing in The Isle of Man.
1907 shares with S. F. Edge’s win in the GordonBennett car race the honour of being a landmark in British motor racing, for it witnessed the opening of
Brooklands track and the organization of the first Manx
T.T. race for motor bicycles. The enthusiasts had triumphed after years of spadework.’ The trade was at last
convinced that nothing but racework could bring our
machines up to the continental standard. Since 1907 our
motorcycles have steadily improved, and since about igli
they have probably been the best in the world.
HA Collier on the Matchless-Jap, after the race
The first T.T. race produced a curious regulation
copied from the rules of the car event, and limiting the
petrol supplies; single-cylinder machines were allowed
one gallon per 90 miles, and twins one gallon per 75
miles. Seventeen singles and eight twins actually started,
and despite the fuel allowance C. R. Collier won at 38.5
miles an hour. The fact that less than half the entrants
were able to complete the course taught the trade what a
searching test road-racing provides. Moreover, many
people learnt in practice that engines which behave toler35
ably in touring work soon curl up when they are driven
all out in a long race. By the close of the year several
designers had formulated dreams of machines which
should stand sustained speed on bad roads-a notable
advance on current ideals.
On April 20, 1908, a fresh milestone was erected
when the first motorcycle race was held on Brooklands
track. Twenty-four machines, ranging from Cook’s 9
h.p. Peugeot down to McMinnies’ 3-1/2 h.p. Triumph,
started level, and the big Peugeot, geared 2.625 to 1,
won at 63 m.p.h. A handicap on the time start basis
followed in May, and Brooklands continued to play an
invaluable part in perfecting motorcycle engines until the
European war. A single yarn will serve to show the usefulness of the track. A certain firm, which utilized
hillclimbing competitions as its main advertising medium,
found its policy hampered by a rival firm, who used the
same proprietary engine, and employed a mechanic who
could obtain even better results from the engine in question. So a commission was given to an outside engineer
to design a still better engine. Presently the engineer
brought down his first engine. It was tried on a favourite
hill, and easily beat the previous best time. The managing
director was on the brink of signing a contract for several thousand duplicate engines when his technical adviser asked for a week’s delay. This was arranged, and
the sample engine was tested on Brooklands. It showed
no great speed, and after five laps it died away to nothing. For years afterwards the firm in question regarded
Brooklands as their most precious asset; their testers
lived on the track when any change of design was under
consideration.
Pedalling Barred in 1908.
The 1908 T.T. race was organized on the fuel limitation system, the allowances being decreased to a gallon
per 100 miles for singles and 80 miles for twins. It is
comic to recall that pedalling assistance was prohibited,
as some riders were thought to have gained an unfair
advantage by using “ l.p.a.” in 1907. The race was once
more run on the cheap, and since the trade would neither
pay large entry fees nor offer donations, the meagre
prizes were furnished by the subscriptions of enthusiasts. Silencers were compulsory, and a preliminary test
of their efficiency was made. Marshall’s Triumph was
the fastest single at 38.7 m.p.h.; whilst Reed, on a Dot36
Peugeot, headed the twins at 37 m.p.h. As in 1907, most
of the men averaged more than a hundred miles per
gallon, and some of the cracks adjusted their fuel consumption so precisely that their tanks only contained an
ounce or two of petrol at the finish.
For the 1909 race the niggling petrol allowance was
wisely discarded, and singles and twins were set to race
in one class, with capacity limits of 500 c.c. and 750 c.c.
respectively. The mountain climb was also included for
the first time. The race was one of the finest ever held in
the island, and resolved itself into a double-barrelled
duel. Lee-Evans on a 5 h.p. Indian waged a terrific battle
with H. A. Collier on a Matchless twin. Collier did not
think the Indian machine would stand the racket, and
rode a waiting race for the first few laps. Gradually
perceiving what he was up against, he began to put in all
he knew after the half-distance, and won a very popular
victory at just over 49 m.p.h. Simultaneously Jack
Marshall on a Triumph and Godfrey on a Rex were
trying to decide which single-cylinder was the fastest.
Indeed for seven laps it was by no means certain that the
big twins would beat Marshall. In the eighth lap he broke
a valve, and the Triumph second string then took up the
running, and finally got home a few seconds in front of
the Rex. We little guessed that Indian racing machines
were destined to prove very formidable in all our speed
events for years to come, and that this vermillion racer
was the vanguard of a great invasion of American motorcycles. This race satisfied poetic justice. The brothers
Collier had done more for motorcycle racing in England
than any other individuals; and everybody rejoiced to see
one of them win outright and defeat the invader on a very
thrilling occasion. The two-stroke engine was represented in racing for the first time, but accomplished
nothing; the Scott entry interested the crowd chiefly
because of its mechanical starter and pleasant exhaust.
The Brothers Collier Waltz Home.
By 1910 the T.T. had come to rank as at least the
equal of a six days’ reliability trial in public interest, and
a huge entry automatically resulted. The twins again
raced among the singles, but in view of their easy victory
in 1909 their capacity was cut down to the odd figure of
680 c.c. After the more reckless men had been eliminated
during the opening laps, the two Colliers waltzed home,
steadily hunted by the slower Triumphs. This time it was
37
Charlie’s turn to win, and his speed was 50.7 m.p.h. The
Indian team were outed by a faulty consignment of inner
tubes, and the race as a whole lacked interest, since the
Matchless twin-and the Triumph single were too fast for
all their rivals, but too unequally handicapped to hustle
each other.
fourth lap, when he punctured, and Godfrey’s Indian
went in front and stayed there. Charlie Collier mended
his tyre and rode like a demon, but was beaten by 73
seconds. Two more Indians ‘finished third and fourth
close behind him. To make matters worse, Collier was
disqualified for taking petrol on board at an unofficial
depot, which left American machines 1st, 2nd and 3rd
on the list. The Junior T.T. excited little interest by comThe First Junior ‘T.T.’
parison, and resulted in. a victory for the little Humber V
By 1911 the claims of small engines necessitated the
twin with Armstrong gear. Later in the year C. R. Collier
foundation of a junior T.T., which was limited to 300 c.c
comforted our patriotic hearts a little by smashing all
for singles and 340 c.c. for twins. As the larger twins had
American track records he actually did a flying mile at
always proved too big for the 500 c.c. single, they were
Brooklands at the speed of 91.37 m.p.h.
now handicapped down to 585 c.c. The Senior race
In 1912 the British trade was naturally on its mettle
revived the thrills of igog, for at the end of the first lap
the American crack, Jake de Rosier, was leading by half to recover lost laurels, but no great confidence was felt,
a minute on an Indian twin, there were three more Indians seeing that in the T.T. the man counts for quite as much
as the machine, and men with a genius for road-racing
on his heels, with C. R. Collier’s Matchless and
are not easy to come by. Moreover, the Collier brothers
Applebee’s Scott completing the first six. The chances
were not growing younger, and the Triumph firm did not
of a British debacle seemed serious, for the Triumph
appear to have a jockey of the first class at their disteam threatened no danger. Harry Collier was slow and
posal. On the other hand, the Indian team had lost
nobody expected the Scott to stay the distance. In the
Moorhouse (killed at Brooklands) and de Rosier
second lap Charlie Collier snatched a tiny lead, but was
(smashed up in America), whilst the twin-cylinders were
driven hard by the Indian braves. He kept ahead till the
38
now limited to 500 c.c. So far as public form went, the
two Colliers were expected to fight out an international
duel with the fastest Indians. However, the preliminary
practising in the island showed that whoever wanted to
win would have to beat the Scotts, which were very fast,
held the road like postage stamps, cornered sensationally, and were in the hands of two brilliant riders in
Applebee and Philipp. These’two riders actually led the
field till within a few miles of the finish, when Philipp’s
back tyre came off and cost him several places. Haswell
on a Triumph was fractionally slower, ‘ and stepped into
second place. Franklin (an Irish representative) had a
bad fall on his fourth lap, but the Indian machines were
not fast enough to win. The Junior Race was an easy
victory for Douglas machines.
Meanwhile the ordinary racing proceeded at
Brooklands, and considerable interest was taken in a
series of attempts at record by various types of machine
over various distances and periods. The trade found
these standard records a useful mode of advertisement,
especially when a new type . of machine required bringing before the public. Track experience was, of course,
very largely respon-sible for the improvement in T.T.
performances. By 1913 the track had developed an
almost permanent activity. The Brooklands Motorcycle
Racing Club held monthly meetings, and routine tests or
record attempts by trade riders occupied the intervals.
The 1913 T.T. was felt to be singularly open, as an
entry of 96 machines for the Senior event alone suggested that the jockeys must include some genuine dark
horses, whilst Brooklands had taught firms with little
experience of racing how engines should be designed
and built. If the Indian team were anxious to regain the
trophy for America, a formidable army of Britishers were
determined to retain it. The race was full of thrills. After
the first lap four Rudges ridden by unknown men were
leading, followed by two Indians and a Matchless ; but
with seven laps to go, instead of five as in former years,
there were sure to be casualties by the way. In the second lap two of the fastest Rudges dropped out, and Tim
Wood on a Scott rushed up into second place. After
three laps the. Scott was leading by four minutes, hunted
by a medley of Rudges and Indians. The order continued to vary with kaleidoscopic rapidity as the long race
wore on, and excitement was maintained at fever heat,
as. Scott, Rudge, and Indian led in turn, with here and
39
there a fast man dropping out. The position at the end of
the penultimate lap was really breath-catching, as the
three leaders were
1. T. Wood
(Scott) .. .. 4h. 40m. 23s.
2. A. R. Abbott (Rudge) .. .. 4h. 40m. 34s.
3. A. H. Alexander (Indian)
4h. 40m. 55s.
Abbott actually lost the trophy by overshooting a
corner in his haste, whilst Wood finished like a tiger.
Alexander was slowed by dirt in his carburetter during
the last lap.
The Junior Race had proved only less exciting than
the Senior, for Hugh Mason on a N.U.T., and Newsome
on a Douglas finished within seconds of each other over
a six-lap course. Enthusiasts with weak hearts began to
doubt the wisdom of attending any more races contested
with such ferocity. A gloom was cast over the race week
by the death of a Rudge rider. He was leading the field in
the fifth lap of the Senior Race, when an Indian passed
him on the descent from the mountain. The Rudge rider
opened out to regain the lead, and got on rough ground
as he repassed the Indian. Several other accidents occurred, and there was much talk of limiting future races
Rounding the Devil’s Elbow
40
to smaller engines. Eventually, it was perceived that the
real danger arose from Brooklands experts who ventured
upon tremendous speeds without sufficient road-racing
experience ; and safety was thought to be attained by
insisting upon the wearing of helmets and a considerable
amount of preliminary practice.
passed the Matchless and dead-heated with the Indian
for second place. In this race twenty men averaged over
44 m.p.h., on one of the hilliest and most dangerous
courses ever utilized for motor-racing. Pullin’s speed
was 49.9 m.p.h., and it is significant that the A.J.S.,
which won the junior Race, averaged 45.6 m.p.h.
The men who organized the first T.T. race in the
teeth of ridicule, opposition and indifference, may well
The Last T.T. Before War I.
feel proud when they reflect how the Manx event has
The 1914 race was dated for May, and the Rudge
transformed motorcycles, and especially their engines
team were expected to be dangerous after their sensaand gears. The same coterie of enthusiasts were largely
tional showing of the previous year. First laps are never
responsible for maintaining our representation in the old
very safe guides, as men who are not stayers often put
up a sensational sprint before they retire. The second lap International Cup Trials, and they must have felt inclined
to despair when their best efforts only procured four or
showed Wood’s Scott leading by three minutes from
Harry Collier, with C. G. Pullin’s Rudge coming up fast. five entries for an eliminating trial, and a few miles of
park roads for them to race over. In 1914 there were no
Collier passed Wood on the third lap, and the pair
fewer than 158 entries for the Manx races: everybody of
changed places again on the fourth lap. In the fifth lap
importance in the trade crossed to the island, and thouCollier broke his frame, and Wood was outed by his
magneto. These misfortunes let Pullin in for the lead after sands of amateurs arranged their holidays so as to be
five laps, with Collier’s Matchless and Godfrey’s Indian present. Moreover, the British-built machines can now
minutes behind him. In the sixth lap Pullin ran right away more than hold their own with those of any other nation,
and won by seven minutes. Meanwhile a new aspirant to and fear comparison with none in the world.
T.T. honours - a Sunbeam, ridden by H. R. Davies 41
V. THE END TO END RECORD.
THE notion of setting up record times for a motorcycle ride between Lands End and John o’ Groats was,
of course, a heritage from the most sporting epoch of
the pushbike, during which G. P. Mills had earned such
fame on the classic route. E. H. Arnott, captain of the
Motor Cycling Club, was the first man to complete a
timed ride, covering the distance during July 1902 in 65
hrs. 45 min. on a 2 h.p. Werner. The French Werners
were the crack machine of those days, though, like many
of the best English pioneer cycles they failed to keep
pace with the times, and gradually vanished from the
market. These record rides were never recognized by the
powers that be, to wit the Automobile Club and its successors, the A.C.C. and A.C.U. This boycott was originally accidental. The pushbike records were verified and
guaranteed by one of the official timekeepers of the
various cycling organizations; the chosen watch-holder
trained down to Penzance, timed the record-breaker off
on his long trip, caught and passed him on the railway,
and waited up at John o’ Groats to time him in. A similiar
procedure was adopted when motorcycling records
began, and continued until the pace got so hot that the
5. The End to End Record
motorcycle was much too fast for the train over such a
long, cross country journey.
By this time the A.C.C. dare not handle the business, as the gross average speed from start to finish was
wholly illegal, and it was thought wise to suspend.some
of the later riders from competing in any A.C.U. events.
Various methods of checking the records were then
resorted to. A brace of timekeepers - one at each end proved too expensive: journalists and garage proprietors
were invited to officiate, and at times the run was so
poorly authenticated that it came into disrepute. Accusations were made that more than one machine was utilized
on certain attempts. The motives underlying a record
attempt were naturally mixed. Sometimes an individual
rider was seeking personal fame. Sometimes a firm of
manufacturers desired advertisement. Occasionally a
sportsman would start from sheer love of tackling a
dangerous and difficult job. On the whole the rides
tended to improve the breed of motorcycles, and to
create enthusiasm for the hobby.
42
Difficulties of Early Attempts.
It would be invidious to select any given record for
special honour. The first few runs were undoubtedly
remarkably plucky. The roads north of Perth were frightfully bad, as the Highland tracks had not then been
reconstructed to carry tourist motor traffic, and the
Grampian road in particular had degenerated into a mere
scar across the moors after the opening of the railway.
The early motorcycles had rigid forks, small saddles,
and ill-balanced engines, whilst it was exceptional for any
of them to run 50 miles without giving trouble. Garages
were few and far between. The supply of spare parts,
and even of petrol, was problematical. The machine
required pedal assistance on very moderate hills, and its
speed on the level was so poor that a trip of some goo
miles against the clock was a great weariness to the flesh.
It was always on the cards that the rider’s accumulators
might give out in some lonely fastness many miles from a
railway station.
From the outset the ride was conducted by schedule. To shorten the distance and give the rider a much
needed rest, the ferries were utilized for crossing the
Firth of Forth (Granton to Burntisland) and the Beauly
Firth. As the time was cut down by successive recordholders, it became necessary to arrange for tugs to wait
with steam up; the aspirant usually planned his ride for
much faster time than he actually attained, and the bills
for these boats became decidedly steep. The timekeeper
charged £ 20 or so, inclusive of expenses, and the
charges were swelled by arrangements for meals and
petrol at all hours of the night. Arnott and Silver, the first
two successful aspirants, both spent 2-1/2 nights on the
road.
It was difficult for a tired man to carry details of 900
miles of route-finding in his head, and it was impracticable to carry large scale maps of the whole road. The
usual plan was to obtain such roadbooks as the C.T.C.
guides, and to type extracts from them of all the awkward turnings. This scheme served excellently so long as
the rider kept to the proper route, but if he got sleepy
and made a false turn, he often lost all sense of direction,
and went miles out of his way.
43
Success due to a Minor Fitment.
Arnott’s fine 1902 figures stood for eleven months,
and in June, 1903, Tom Silver reduced the time to 64
hrs. 29 min. on a 3 h.p. Quadrant. He left Groats at
midnight on a Wednesday, and reached the Lands End
Hotel, at 4.29 p.m. on Saturday, in a state of physical
exhaustion, partly ascribable to heavy falls along the
Grampian road. He used a 5/8 in. leather V-belt, and
surface carburetter. The unusual reliability of his machine
was in no small degree due to a substantial contactbreaker of British design, for the common French contact-breakers of that era could hardly be trusted to work
for 50 miles without adjustment, and dropped to pieces
after they had been tool-handled a few times.
A year later (June, 1904) G. P. Mills tore lumps off
Silver’s time by covering the distance in 50 hrs. 46.5
min. It appears to have occurred to Mills that it was
absurd for motorcycles to take 60 odd hours for a ride
which he had covered on a pushbike in 77 hours ten
years previously. At any rate he built a special Raleigh
motorcycle for the job, and as this machine was never
seriously marketed, his ride must be interpreted as the
roar of a lion warning jackals away from his pet drinking-
place. The Raleigh was of rather advanced design for
those days. It had a spring handlebar, and a crude form
of two-speed gear, embodying high and low speed
chains from the counter-shaft to the rear wheel ; no
pedals were fitted. Mills’ schedule was planned for 421
hours, but he struck heaps of trouble. The spring handlebar broke not far from Penzance, putting the switch and
front brake out of commission. The southern roads were
dry, and numerous punctures were sustained. Rubber
solution and patches in 1904 were not of the quickdrying type, and each repair left a tiny leakage of air.
From Bristol to Groats Mills was perpetually jumping off
to blow up a tyre. The Scottish roads were simply frightful. They had been repaired after the winter snow had
melted by the simple expedient of dumping down
cartloads of broken stone and Highland surveyors did
not insist on a 2 in. mesh in those days. Mills lost 8
hours with tyre trouble, and spent 41 hours upon meals.
He rode through a heavy gale in the north of Scotland,
and finished with his wheel-rims dinted like the edge of a
piecrust, and his face mashed to rawness by the weather.
A humorous detail of the ride was that Mills met at
Groats a modest rider who had come up to contest
44
Silver’s 64 hr. figures, and was now compelled to revise
his schedule by telegraph to beat the new time of 50 odd
hours.
His figures were 48 hrs. 36 min. His machine was far less
suited to the job than the Raleigh, being single-geared
and belt-driven, with pedals. Its success must be ascribed to good organization, fine riding, and an engine
Advantages of Starting the Record from the North. which held its tune well. Many further attempts were
made over the course, but Williamson’s figures stood
For some time to come attempts on the record were
for nearly four years, until Arthur Bentley, on a 3-1/2 h.p.
frequent and free. When practicable, they were confined
Triumph, pared just over seven hours off them in June,
to the middle of summer for obvious reasons. Not only
1908 (41 hrs. 28 min.).
is the treacherous Scottish climate more trustworthy in
Bentley wisely started from the northern end at two
June, but the nights are short. If there is no midnight sun
at Groats in June, it is at least possible to read a newspa- o’clock in the morning, and if his organization had been
per out-of-doors at midnight; and it was becoming clear better he might have set up figures which would have
that if a really fast machine started from the northern end proved invincible. As it was, most of his feeding arrangements broke down; he intended to stop for one square
and met no trouble, Lands End could be reached after
no more than one night on the road. In June that “night“ meal only (at Whitchurch), and this was not ready for
him, so that he rode right through to Launceston without
might be limited to three hours of darkness somewhere
about the region of Carlisle, where the roads were good. any proper food. Along the southern portion below
Gloucester he became lightheaded, and lost a good deal
Given a full moon, fast time could be registered under
of time from various causes. However, despite all these
these conditions.
handicaps his figures stood for a year.
However, as luck would have it, the next success
In 1909 Tom Peck on a 3-1/2 h.p. Rex tackled the
came from a southern start, Harold Williamson’s Rex
ride in the northerly direction, and his single-geared
snatching the record after Mills had held it for a month.
belt-driver went through in fine form, barring a few tyre
45
stoppages. His time was 40-1/2 hours. Peck had only
been a motorcyclist for twelve months, and his performance owed much to his intimate knowledge of the
roads, an invaluable asset where time-saving is concerned.
Hart-Davies’ Record Rides.
The next ride came two months later, and effectually
frightened away aspirants for some time to come. The
late Ivan B. Hart-Davies, killed in a flying crash at
Northolt during the war, was an extraordinary rider. As a
speedster he was not in the first class, and could never
have accomplished great things in the T.T. or on the
track. But his physical stamina was colossal, and he
could probably make hacks of most racing men in sustained speed-work on the road. He liked nothing better
than an all-day scrap with two or three fast men who
fancied their corner-work. He might be beaten when the
party were fresh, but towards the end of such an outing
he would generally be miles an hour faster than the rest
of the crowd, for he never tired. He relied on amateur
assistance, and had plenty of sporting friends who provided him with first-class organization on his record
rides. By this time it had become customary for a
record-breaker to employ guides and followers. The
rider no longer troubled to learn the whole of the route,
whilst time did not permit him to consult maps. Over
every tricky section the rider would be guided by fast
men who knew the roads of the locality perfectly; and
behind him would be two or three others, ready to lend a
hand in tyre repairs, or to go in front if the guide tired or
had trouble with his machine. The guide would wear a
white coat to facilitate following in the dark.
Hart-Davies left Groats at 3 a.m. on a Monday, and
checked into Lands End at 12.22 p.m. on Tuesday - a
total of 33 hrs. 22 min. His single-geared Triumph
weighed 196 lbs., with pedalling gear and a specially
large fuel tank. He used magneto ignition, and a Stanley
rubber belt.
The A.C.U. and Road Records.
For some time to come Peck and others pluckily
attempted to surpass the Triumph figures, but the pace
was now growing too hot, and bad weather or a few tyre
stoppages wrecked many a promising performance,
46
whilst several riders sustained bad falls in attempting to
ride at speed when they were tired out. The Auto-Cycle
Union not unjustifiably frowned on these efforts, and
threatened all manner of penalties, dreading lest a bunch
of speedsters should crash into some vehicle or pedestrian when taking risks round a corner. Davies’ figures
stood for a year, and when September, 1910 was drawing to a close and the days were shortening, it seemed
certain to live for a second year. Great was the astonishment when it became known that the late Arthur
Moorhouse, who had previously failed over the course,
had left Groats early in the morning of September 20,
and got down to Lands End in 32 hrs. 13 min. This was
a tremendous feat, considering that the darkness lasted
eleven hours, and that the rider held on through frost,
rain and fog along various sections of the road. His
single-geared Rex scaled 218 lbs., including two big
lamps and a heavy kit of spares.
Nobody expected Hart-Davies to take this defeat
lying down, but the season was far too late for an impromptu retort, and it was not until June, 1911, that the
burly specialist regained his record with the astounding
time of 29 hrs. 12 min. He refused to employ a variable
gear, since the hills on the classic course are well within
the compass of a single gear, and the retention of a dropout back wheel facilitated the inevitable tyre repairs. Both
Davies and Moorhouse considered that a first-class man
on a first-class machine, with first-class luck, could cut
the figures down to 28 hours, but nobody has yet succeeded in doing so, nor are the prospects particularly
enticing.
A series of less important records have been put up
over the same course, the period from 1909-1811 being a
period of great activity. Though the 3-1/2 h.p. type of
machine attracted the keenest interest, similar advertisements were also sought for light and medium weight
motor bicycles, and for sidecar outfits.
In July, 1910, Harold Cox put a 1-1/4 h.p. Singer,
weighing no more than 93 lbs., over the classic route in
57 hrs. 26 min., and Eli Clark promptly reduced this
“light-weight“ time to 39 hrs. 40 min., with the aid of a 23/4 h.p. single-geared Douglas, both riders using their
pedals freely. A controversy arose as to whether the
Douglas should rank as a light or a medium weight.
47
Sidecar Honours.
From 1909 onwards a regular procession of sidecar
outfits essayed similar honours. The first was a 7 h.p.
Vindec Special with Peugeot engine, Vivian Olsson’s
time being 65 hrs. 14 min. This poor time naturally invited attack, though the gross unreliability of sidecars in
those days made the feat far better than it looks on
paper. The brothers A. W. and H. M. Bentley accepted
the challenge in the same month with a Rex twin and
sidecar, but only lowered the time by 6 hrs. 7 min. Three
months later Martin Gaiger brought out another big
Vindec, and reduced the sidecar record to 51 hrs. 45
min. Not until June, igio, were satisfactory sidecar times
registered, when Hugh Gibson drove a 3-1/2 h.p. Triumph outfit over the course in 46 hrs. 47 min. - perhaps
the finest feat which a motor has yet achieved over the
course, for sidecars take some handling at speed, and
are very tiring to drive continuously. The outfit was
single-geared, and weighed 300 lbs. complete with all
load excepting the two passengers, who scaled 18 st.
George Wray, the occupant of the sidecar, had a busy
time, as he had to nip overboard on some of the more
severe hills.
Hart-Davies subsequently set up a light car record
on a 10 h.p. Singer, and finally learnt to fly with the idea
of attempting an aeroplane record; but the unreliability of
current machines, combined with the scarcity of
landing-grounds and the expense of the enterprise, prevented this supreme ideal from materializing.
48
VI. TRICARS.
F OR a few’ years commencing in 1905 or thereabouts, the problem of a passenger motorcycle seemed
likely to be solved by the three-wheelers known as
tricars, of which an immense variety of types were built,
though none of them were ever produced in large numbers. The craze originated with Hooydonk’s famous
Phoenix Trimo - a 3-1/2 h.p. bicycle with the front wheel
removed, and a two-wheeled forecarriage fitted in its
place with a basket chair, utilizing the bicycle steering. It
was attached by headclips and two long sidestays extending from the rear wheel spindle ends. A 3-1/2 h.p.
engine in conjunction with a two-speed epicyclic hub
enabled this outfit to climb ordinary main road hills
slowly but surely; indeed the pioneer machine had a
comparatively small engine and a single-geared belt
drive. Numerous imitations promptly appeared. Wilbur
Gunn evolved a very pretty little Lagonda tricar, with a 4
h.p. air-cooled engine and a counter-shaft two-speed
gearbox, which won many honours in competition. The
Humber Company produced a somewhat similar machine, and every motorcyclist who could afford the
outlay became keenly interested. Within a year or so
some twenty or thirty tricars made their debut.
6. Tricars
A Powerful Trio.
The public eye was mainly taken by a powerful trio
consisting of an enlarged Lagonda, rated at 10 h.p., and
two other machines fitted with 9 h.p. Riley engines, and
made by the Riley and Singer firms respectively. All of
them had three-speed gearboxes on car lines, and retailed at about £125 with handsome coachbuilt seating
fore and aft. It is rather difficult to say why they died an
early death, for none of them were really bad, and the big
Lagonda was uncommonly good. It must be remembered that motorcycling had not yet become utilitarian,
and was fundamentally a hobby for comparatively wellto-do young men. From this standpoint the dominant
type of tricar was rather costly, and not too reliable. On
the other hand, the sidecar was already coming into
vogue. It was considerably cheaper in those days than a
big tricar, whilst the little tricars were thrown into obscurity by the speed performances of their high-powered
sisters. Moreover, the sidecar could be bought as an
afterthought, and could be detached at will when the
bicycle was required for solo use-a feature of real value
in days when even solo machines were not invincible on
hills. Anyhow, the big tricars slowly but surely deceased.
49
6. Tricars
One small tricar - the A.C. runabout-lingered on for
several years: gradually the bulk of the market fell to a
much lighter and simpler design with excellent cooling the Morgan run-about.
type transmission promised freedom from trouble. A
speed of 45 m.p.h. on the flat was easily attainable, and
hills could not be climbed with more certainty on a 1920
Rolls-Royce (as long ago as 1906 a big tricar would
ascend a grade of 1 in 4 very comfortably). Her faults
were yet to be learnt. The original brakes were very
My First Tricar Investment.
feeble. Before they had been replaced by larger drums,
Taking up tricars with enthusiasm, I passed through
several humorous incidents occurred. For example, the
a fresh gamut of tribulations, for the early types were as
water-cooling of the early models was grossly inefficient,
crude and raw as primitive motor bicycles had been six
and the radiator always steamed freely on a fast climb.
or seven years previously. My first investment in this line
One day we were descending the reverse side of a hill,
was a 4-1/2 h.p. Riley. Its ignition coil was thoughtlessly
when a pinhole leak opened in the top of the watertank,
mounted in a wooden box clipped to the rear of the
and a geyser of scalding water played gracefully over my
water-cooler. Needless to say, the water frequently
passenger and myself; the brakes refused to act, and our
boiled, and on such occasions the internal insulation of
yells were piteous to hear. A few weeks later we were
the coil naturally melted. The engine was a thumping
returning from Sevenoaks to town in a great hurry on
single-cylinder, and there was no shock absorber of any
Saturday evening, and the water as usual was boiling
kind in the all-chain transmission. That the chains,
furiously. On this occasion a pinhole leak developed in
sprockets, gears and back wheel lasted as long as they
the near side of the watertank, and a jet of boiling water
did is a great tribute to British material and workmanship.
spat upon the crowds collected at all the tram-stops in
Its successor was a 9 h.p. Riley. For its day and on the Walworth Road. Nevertheless we reached Piccadilly
its day this machine was a revelation. Its accumulator
without being lynched.
ignition was of a quality previously unequalled. Its car
50
The Engine Buckled the Rear Frame.
Another day a kindly friend misadjusted the radius
rods which set the tension of the driving-chain. Miles
from anywhere a scrunch was heard, and the liberated
engine roared madly as the chain fell off. I stopped, and
began to thread the chain back into place. It seemed to
have lengthened wondrously. I mused to myself that
though I had heard of chains stretching, I never guessed
they could stretch a foot in a hundred miles. Horror and
despair! The enraged engine had buckled up the rear
forks, and the back wheel was six inches farther forward
than it ought to be.
Brakes were a weak point on most of the early
tricars. Principle suggested that all three wheels ought to
be braked. But the average front wheel brake drums were
little larger than a crownpiece, and the brakes were not
balanced. They exerted no force worthy of mention, and
if painstaking adjustment endued them with a suggestion
of stopping power, they went on unevenly, and made the
machine skid. So most of us made a habit of adjusting
the front brakes so that they could not rub and squeak ;
ever after we depended solely on the one rear bandbrake
and if it went amiss, we were done.
6. Tricars
An Honest Deal.
My own big tricars did not reveal their gravest defect for two or three thousand miles. If the tyre became
deflated from any cause, the rear springing caused the
rear wheel to be forced over out of the vertical. This
immediately deranged the steering. The manufacturers
were probably aware of this, as they fitted enormous
tyres to the back wheel; on the other hand these colossal
tyres may have been adopted because it was generally a
two-hour job to take the wheel out and put it back again.
Anyhow, when such a machine punctured, the unfortunate driver had two alternatives. One was to hold the
machine straight, when it promptly turned turtle. The
other was to choose the softest spot in the adjacent
hedge. I oscillated between both alternatives. At last,
finding them equally undesirable, I sold the machine. I
was perfectly honest about it. I told my customer why I
was selling her. I asked a low price, and I advised him to
fit a new back tyre every 1,000 miles. But he thought he
knew something. He had been converted by an inventor
who had compounded a new tyre filling, which looked
like bright green sausage meat and smelt like a dead Hun.
51
Years afterwards I met this daring buyer, looking
grizzled and old. The green sausage meat had not proved
an unqualified success. It began by corroding the tube.
Then it corroded the cover. Having eaten its way through
to the open air, it deposited itself on the road in the form
of a slimy trail. As the slow leakages totted up, the conditions of a deflating tyre were faithfully reproduced. A
race against time began. Could a railway station be
reached before enough sausage meat had escaped to
create the familiar dilemma of “Capsize, or charge the
hedge“? Finally, the insurance company had exhausted
their patience; they refused to renew so expensive a
policy; the engine was taken out and utilized to drive a
chaffcutter, and the body work was bisected, mounted
on castors, and converted into a brace of cosy armchairs. Sic transit gloria mundi.
The Tale of a Starting Handle.
One of the most hectic episodes of my chequered
career had reference to the starting handle of a tricar. Let
me explain that these handles were generally of the detachable pattern, mainly because the engine was set
across the chassis, and a fixed handle would have
6. Tricars
mowed down pedestrians after the fashion of the scythe
blades on the hubs of Boadicea’s chariot. It follows that
such handles were usually lilliputian, for there was no
storage space adequate for a good sensible crank. One
of my tricars was afflicted with a handle of this type, and
its operation was not unattended by excitement and risk.
As the handle was little larger than that of a sewing machine, and the engine was of 9 h.p., a start could only be
effected by putting all one’s weight into whirling the
handle. When the engine fired, the handle did not disengage as a good handle should. It clung firmly to the
crankshaft, and revolved with it at umpteen r.p.m. in an
invisible blur. The first time this happened, I chocked the
handle with the sole of my boot; it promptly raised a
purple streak right across my instep (which made me
limp for days), and then flew off in a graceful parabola
into a hayfield. After a long search I recovered it, and
restarted the engine - if it had been allowed to run during
the search for the handle, it would have boiled all its
water away. After several attempts the engine fired, and
the handle again clung to the shaft. This time I knocked it
off with the loose cushion of the driver’s seat, and a
flurry of horsehair and coiled springs filled the air, as the
52
handle ripped the pegamoid off the frame of the cushion.
My next stop was in the narrow streets of a small market
town, where a regular fracas awaited me. When I restarted the engine, the handle once more endeavoured to
usurp the functions of a flywheel. My cushion had
ceased to exist, and my foot was sore. I eyed the blur
which represented the whereabouts of the handle, and
went into an adjacent inn yard to borrow a bit of board.
During my temporary absence an incautious member
of the inevitable crowd walked into my invisible handle,
and got an awful whonk on his shin. Unfortunately the
handle did not come off. Returning with my bit of board
from the inn yard I foolishly attempted to do two things
simultaneously. Whilst I endeavoured to pacify the angry
gentleman with the injured shin, I rather carelessly battered the whirling handle with the bit of board. The
handle flew off, soared across the street, and collided
forcibly with a milkboy who was hurrying up to swell the
crowd. I nearly got lynched. Worse still, the impact with
the milkboy bent my starting-handle, and I had to engage
casual labour to push the machine off until a new handle
arrived from the factory. I then made my debut as a
designing engineer, and made an improved starter.
6. Tricars
An Early Advertising Stunt.
In those days manufacturers were in the habit of
organizing unofficial advertising stunts, which were
usually put forward as “ records.” I was engaged to set
up a tricar record of this character, by covering the
distance between two towns, 100 miles apart, at a projected speed of 40 m.p.h. I received a brand new projectile from the hands of the advertising manager, and began
my hectic journey before the milkmen were up. I covered
nearly 40 miles in the first hour, and got rather sleepy.
Presently as I negotiated a greasy bend, I found myself
and the tricar careering by some miracle along the top of
a broad, low bank which bordered the road. Somewhat
mazed, I eyed the road in wonderment, scheming how I
might regain the lower level. Before I had formulated
plans, the bows of the tricar fetched up uncommonly
short against a large heap of road metal which adorned
the bank. The fore springs were buckled.
I got a tow behind a rescuing car, and the most
alarming drive of my life began. The road was a greasy
switchback, and I had no brakes. Down every hill I
commenced to overhaul the car rapidly, and saw the tow
rope festooning along the road beneath my front wheels,
53
with every prospect of yanking me into eternity when the
car hauled the rope tight again. Fusillades of hoots acquainted the car driver of my peril, and he accelerated.
Then the greasy surface had its effect on his car, and he
began a series of skids at 40 m.p.h. Each skid was faithfully transmitted by the rope to my tricar, and I duplicated his gyrations. Presently we reached a town, where
an agricultural show was in progress. The driver of the
car was not accustomed to towing, and accelerated
when a flock of piglets dived between us. This proved
expensive. Finally we neared the garage. The car turned
sharply in at speed and also at right angles. Having no
brakes I dared not attempt the corner, and I shot straight
on till the rope tightened, when I capsized with a crash. It
is hardly surprising that I still regard three-wheelers with
instinctive suspicion.
6. Tricars
Down every hill I commenced to overhaul the car
rapidly, and saw the tow rope festooning along the road
beneath my front wheels, with every prospect of yanking me into eternity when the car hauled the rope tight
again.
54
6. Tricars
(1) This Mills-Fulford “sociable attachment“ fitted to a
1903 Bat was quite one of the earliest sidecars.
(2) A very early two-stroke attachment for fitting to
ordinary bicycles. It drove by friction on the front
tyre.
(3) The 1903 Rex tricar, a type which remained famous
for several years. Note the wind scoop to direct air
from under the passenger seat on to the cylinder.
(4) The 1903 Phoenix “Trimow“ with 2-3/4 h.p. Minerva
engine. Wonderful work was done by these early
passenger machines when one considers that they
were single-geared 2-3/4 h.p. machines.
55
VII. RELIABILITY TRIALS.
1903.
IN the very early days motor bicycles were tested
for reliability in company with cars, a motor bicycle
class being usually tagged on at the tail of an Automobile
Club programme. Then a special autocycle sub-committee was formed by the A.C. (it had not then become
“Royal“), and our machines ceased to be
over-shadowed by their more imposing sisters. Thus in
1903 the first great reliability trial confined to motorcycles was held, and attracted no less than 43 entries. It
was a truly extraordinary affair. The regulations were in
many respects superior to those of the 1919 Six Days;
the organization and management were disgraceful, as
might perhaps be expected of a first attempt; from a
rider’s point of view it was exhausting to the pitch of
despair; and as one looks back upon it, it appears as a
gigantic rag.
One Hundred Miles a Day.
The regulations were both wise and ambitious. The
distance was to be 1,000 miles, aping a famous A.C. car
7. Reliability Trials
;
trial, which had touched the public imagination. As
engines were small, variable gears unknown, and loss of
tune a regular occurrence, we might have to pedal up
quite moderate hills, so that 100 miles per day was our
limit. Consequently the 1,000 miles was split up into ten
instalments, and spread over a fortnight, so as to give the
men Saturday and Sunday to recoup their calf and ankle
muscles at the half distance. The routes were from London to such places as Brighton, . Canterbury, etc., and
back again. Condition at the finish of the 1,000 miles was
tested by a 5-mile race on the Crystal Palace track. No
entry was allowed to exceed 170 lbs. in weight. The test
hill of the great event was-the Hog’s Back, if you please,
failure on which implied a loss of ten marks. All this
sounded very promising, and when 43 entries were
secured the motorcycling committee of the A.C. purred
with glee, for half a dozen entries had been regarded as
magnificent in the two-wheeled classes of the car trials.
The great trial opened with a certain amount of
friction. The official garage took the form of a lilliputian
marquee pitched in the centre of a large morass in the’
Crystal Palace grounds.
56
Grouse No. 1: The Palace regulations forbade engines to be run within its sacred precincts, and the exit
was up a long steep hill. Flanders mud never wrung such
curses from a British army as the gallant riders produced
as they pushed their perspiring way to the formal start.
Grouse No. 2: Incidentally, the judges’ chosen
method of identifying competitors took the form of
stencilling colossal figures on the petrol tanks, which did
not please any private owner who took a pride in his
machine.
Grouse No. 3: Mr. Basil joy dispatched the crowd
with an eloquent appeal that they would not alienate
public sympathy by exceeding the legal speed limit of
twelve miles an hour. Before the gruelling fortnight was
over, some machines were mechanically incapable of
such breaches of the law.
ize, and men often lost their way. If a rider loses his way
in a modern trial he can put on speed and recover the
precious minutes he has lost. In those days our speed on
hills was a mere crawl, even with heavy pedal assistance
; and it was impossible to make up time. The control
stations were supposed to be manned by local volunteers, the parson, the postmistress, the village chandler,
or the rustic pushbike champion on his speediron. Some
of these gentlemen failed to keep their engagements, and
the watches of the faithful were never above grievous
suspicion. These difficulties were not smoothed over by
some of the cannier competitors, who were all out to
advertise the machines they rode. Before half the distance had been covered, the officials discovered that
sundry riders were followed by mechanics bestriding
spare mounts heavily laden with spare parts. Threats of
disqualification partially dealt with this situation. As the
mileage totted up, the riders’ legs grew weary of “light
Confetti Versus Arrows.
pedal assistance,” and the engines also grew a thought
The road management of the trial was patchy.
tired. So it occurred to one or two firms that the rules
A.C.U. arrows had not been invented, and the route was did not stipulate that the same jockey should ride
theoretic-ally marked by confetti sprinkled at the corners. throughout, and they coolly proposed to put up fresh
Some of the volunteer confetti sowers failed to material- riders of light weight with hugely-developed calves for
57
the second 500 miles. The officials met in solemn conclave, and decided to allow a change of rider in view of
the gruelling nature of the trial; but they insisted that the
spare rider should not be a lighter man than the original
entrant.
A Gorgeous Spectacle for Enthusiasts.
The contemporary press notices waxed eloquent on
the gorgeous spectacle provided by over forty motorcycles pop-ping down a suburban road in procession ;
and applauded the wisdom of the A.C. in giving the
exhausted men two days’ complete rest at half time.
Twenty of the original forty-three entrants survived to
compete in the race on the Crystal Palace track at the
end of the 1,000 miles. Time for re-tuning the engines
was granted, and an average speed of 28 m.p.h. was
attained. Strangely as it reads, no road trouble was commoner than faulty brakes, for most of the machines had
coaster hubs or Bowden rim brakes. The standard of
mechanical knowledge among the riders is shown by the
fact that a friend of mine retired in the wilds of Kent
simply because a blob of mud had sealed the gauze on
the air intake of his spray carburetter, and he spent sev-
eral hours in vain efforts to get his engine to work properly.
1904.
The above trial is a landmark in the history of
motor-cycling, and produced a regular glut of competitions in the succeeding years. By 1904 every keen Metropolitan rider had engagements most Saturday afternoons, though provincial trials could hardly be said to
exist. The Motorcycling Club did more than any other
body to foster competitions for some time to come. The
same little coterie of about twenty men kept the ball
rolling. S. F. Edge presented a handsome trophy, which
was offered for a hundred mile non-stop. The usual plan
was to appoint a 25-mile course on the Holyhead road,
starting from the Bull Hotel at Redbourne. We went 12.5
miles north, turned round at a wide place in the road (or
spoilt our non-stops by falling off in the attempt, for we
had no free engines), and came back again. After four of
these laps, there were seldom more than two survivors,
the non-stops being verified by fellow-competitors and
by a handful of officials who rode up and down amongst
us. These events finally became a weariness to the flesh.
58
For instance, on one occasion Leonard Jones on a
tricycle of his own construction and Milligan on a
Bradbury got through eight of these 100 mile non-stops,
as was not unnatural when each man had a week to tune
up after each 100 miles. Saturday after Saturday the
indomitable pair proceeded to some venue or other to
ride off their tie, and Saturday after Saturday each man
relentlessly put up a fresh non-stop. How the Club officials cursed when the treadmill lasted on into the bad
weather, and how pleased the committee were when at
last one of the men punctured on a patch of new road
metal.
tricar boom, and endeavoured to nurse the new bantling
by organizing a 100-mile trial on the eve of the shows.
The month was November, and the course from Hatfield
to Newmarket and back. Ten quaint and hastily-constructed machines fought out the issue. Nobody scored
a non-stop, but six machines got home in schedule time.
One of the four medal winners was Tom Sopwith, then a
mere boy. The tricars averaged 12 m.p.h. up an easy hill
in the climbing test; their speed would have been better if
the callous officials had not cruelly removed all our
pedalling chains at the start.
Inauguration of the London. Edinburgh.
The Tricar Attracted Interest.
This same year witnessed the genesis of a ride which
In 1904 the A.C.C. endeavoured to spread its foster- has become a classic - the Whitsuntide Londoning wing over the tricar, which had just begun to attract
Edinburgh ride of the Motorcycling Club. It has long
much interest. The sidecar had not yet been born, or-as
since become contemptible as a test of riding skill or
some prejudiced engineers would put it-misbegotten.
mechanical reliability, and today men enter for it either as
Our standard passenger attachment was the trailer, which oldsters for the sake of “auld lang syne,” or as novices
was always unsociable and frequently unsafe, since no
seeking to earn their spurs in competition work. But in
warnings could prevent amorous motorcyclists from
those days many authorities criticized the organizers for
transporting their ladyloves in shoddy gaspipe trailers
subjecting motor-cycles to an incredible task. It was
built for pushbike work. Anyhow the A.C.C. smelt a
easy to find heavy layers that not a solitary machine
59
would reach Edinburgh at all, much less within the stipulated twenty-four hours.
1905.
The next year was equally busy and even more
successful. The introduction of the high tension magneto
Some of the entrants made a number of trial trips
had practically scotched ignition trouble, which previover the section to Grantham, which had to be covered
in the dark. When S. F. Edge took the chair at the official ously accounted for over 90 per cent. of our very frequent stoppages on the road. Transmission was now the
dinner prior to the start in Paternoster Square, the
main surviving weakness of the motorcycle. Belts were
pro-ceedings wore an air of “Ave, Caesar, to morituri
none too good. clutches and variable gears were practisalutamus.” London turned out en masse to speed the
cally non-existent. The best engines were designed to
parting heroes. The men rode off with palpitating hearts
into the bottle-neck of a huge crowd. All these forebod- give plenty of power at low speeds of revolution. Some
ings were shattered. Twenty-two machines out of forty- of them were extra-ordinarily good in this respect; when
their rush at a steep hill had died away, they settled down
six starters won gold medals.
to a plodding burble and pulled away incredibly; meanTo this day a “first“ London-Edinburgh medal
while the rider pedalled hard, with his eyes starting from
remains a dearly-treasured possession. I remember that
one rider carried no less than four 20 ampere-hour accu- his head and his heart thumping like a steamhammer-to
mulators. Most machines carried two or three lamps; as pedal at 15 m.p.h. with a 60 in. gear and a low saddle is
no child’s play.
a lamp used up its charge of carbide it was pitched into
Furthermore, the wearing surfaces of the average
the ditch, for its spring bracket was pretty certain to be a
wreck by this time. Several men rode for miles lampless, engine did not last long; quite a short mileage took the
bloom off such parts as valve faces, piston rings, and
steering by the glow thrown on the road from the lamp
cylinder bores. On the whole it is not surprising that in
of the next man ahead.
the chief hill-climb of the summer quite half the machines
failed on the gradient.
60
During the summer the Triumph Co. broke all
hard-riding records by setting one of their new 3 h.p.
machines to cover 200 miles a day for six consecutive
days. The rider broke his frame towards the end of his
first attempt, but succeeded in a second venture. Naturally he had to pedal up most of the hills, and a low
average speed converted this formidable ride into a
sunrise-to-sunset affair.
The A.C.C. organized a Six Days’ trial of some 750
miles, carefully routed to dodge an excess of climbing,
but pluckily included Birdlip, which was then regarded
as a super-precipice. It is not easy to recapture the atmosphere of these bygone rides, but the dominant sensation
from start to finish was an overpowering anxiety about
the hills. If all went well, a steep hill meant a bout of hard
pedalling, which actually shortened the lives of the riders
concerned. Moi, qui vous parle, can show a heart strain
dating back indubitably to those frenzied struggles with
long legs on a low frame. Let it not be thought that failure on a hill deprived a man of his gold medal, as it does
to-day. Far from it. The judges were surprised and
pleased if more than one or two men got up the hills
without a dismount; for example in the Birdlip climb of
the 1905 trial only three solo machines (the two-speeded
P. and M. and a 5 h.p. single-geared Ariel) were successful.
No! If your engine began to labour, and you showed
by stertorous breathing and purple cheeks that no more
wind was available for “ l.p.a.” (“light” pedal assistance),
the nearest official would do a football sprint out from
the hedgerow, jam his hands on the back of your saddle,
and gallop along behind you, pushing as well as he could
until he also called “bellows to mend.” By this time you
had probably got your second wind, and after another
spell of l.p.a. you conked out. The rest of the ascent was
the business of the marshals - selected for their brawn
and kindness of heart. They produced flasks and invigorated you. Then half a dozen of them propped you up in
the saddle, and pushed you off. If the worst happened,
two or three of them very possibly manhandled your
accursed machine to the summit, whilst you tottered
alongside, and expressed your opinion of manufacturers
in general, and of the manufacturer of your own mount in
particular. Despite the bowels of the officials and the
spectators, such a struggle as I have described was not
an inviting prospect; and the fate of a late arrival was, of
61
course, infinitely worse. Having previously encountered
trouble, he faced the hill in a debilitated condition. The
road may by this time have been deserted; if any observers still lingered, they were probably lying exhausted on
the banks by the roadside, and physically unequal to any
more pushing. Under such distressing conditions I have
before now availed myself of a friendly cart, and yet
secured my gold medal at the end of the week. In other
words we were allowed to get up the hills anyhow, and
from a competition standpoint the only penalty inflicted
was if we were, late at the next timekeeping station.
Sometimes there was only one control per halfday. The
1905 Six Days showed a fair percentage of successes
under these generous regulations. Thirty-one machines
started, and twenty-one finished, though no more than
six earned their golds.
we were allowed to get up the hills anyhow
62
1906.
By the next year the average motor bicycle had
developed into a fair timekeeper, provided it met with
decent weather and was not put at very hilly roads. The
tricars were still great trouble-mongers. For example,
thirty-four bicycles out of fifty-two won gold medals in
the M.C.C. London-Edinburgh run, and inefficient riders
were to blame for most of the failures; but only four out
of fifteen tricars got through. Greatly daring, the Club
offered the Schulte Trophy for the double journey - 800
miles in 48 hours’ riding time. Eleven out of twelve
starters completed the task, indicating that experienced
men could at last obtain decent results on really easy
roads.
There are no genuinely severe hills on the classic
Lands’ End to John O’Groats course, but when the
A.C.C. selected this route for their six days’ trial, a great
slaughter of the innocents occurred, and the party
dwindled sadly on its long trek north. The entry of seventy-three machines was considered gigantic, and included sixteen tricars, as the sidecar had not yet made its
appearance. Great public interest was excited. Every
town, village, and road junction had its crowd of specta-
tors, and the men were kept busy acknowledging salutes
and plaudits all along the course. Alas, only thirteen
riders managed to maintain an average speed of 15
m.p.h. between controls, and about half the entry
dropped out at various points.
The hill-climbing showed a marked improvement on
previous years, for most of the entry got up Red Hill just
south of Bristol, and some of them roared over Shap
Fell in the teeth of a stiff nor’easter. The want of variable
gears was strongly felt on awkward little hills in thick
traffic (as at Redruth, Cornwall) and on pitches containing sharpish comers (such as Berriedale, N.B.).
The Need of a Change Speed Gear,
The advance in climbing was due-to three factors
better belts, bigger engines, and improved maintenance
of tune. None of these factors solved the hill-climbing
problem; it was significant that the tricars laughed at the
hills with the aid of their car-type gearboxes. Variable
gears for motor bicycles were obviously needed. The
trouble was that designers could not evolve a
feather-weight gear, and were not prepared to accept the
63
tremendous increase in weights necessitated by fitting a
miniature automobile type of gearbox. In the
neighbourhood of Inverness a certain amount of greasy
going was encountered, and nearly all the solo machines
took bad tosses, suggesting that machines were still illbalanced.
1907.
The next year proved rather a blank, so far as evident progress was concerned. The 1906 End to End had
been criticized as excessively severe. As Mr. Lloyd
George is said to govern by listening to public opinion,
so the A.C.U. governs with a sensitive ear cocked towards the trade. If the trade dislike the policy of a trial,
they withhold entries. The 1907 Six Days took the form
of a timid tour from town into the milder part of Wales.
Perhaps this was just as well, seeing that only six entrants possessed variable gears. The main incident of the
event was an illustration of the motorphobia which still
lingered in the horsey districts; a Welsh farmer fired two
shots from a revolver at a rider who had startled his
horse. It is interesting to notice that the horsepower of
roadster machines continued to rise, the increase being
intended as a substitute for- variable gears. Weights
remained sur-prisingly prisingly low; for example, the
trade-entered Triumphs of 3-1/2 h.p. scaled 160 lbs.,
which is less than the weight of some typical 1920 lightweight mounts.
1908.
1908 witnessed continued stagnation in the allimportant matter of transmission. The year is chiefly
interesting because’ it brought the debut of two machines which may be ranked as epoch-making, both of
them exerting a profound influence on future developments. One of them was the Douglas - the real parent of
the modern “flat twin.” A similar engine had already seen
a struggling existence under the names of Barter and
Fairy. Then the Douglas Co. took over the patents, and
entered a trio for the A.C.U. Six Days, which as in 1906
was contested over the End to End route. All three machines were destined to disaster, for they broke their
frames before reaching the far north. But they survived
long enough to create a great impression. Their low
weight, vibrationless running, and confident hill-climbing
won all hearts. Frame weaknesses were easily remedied,
64
and even in the days when they were beltdriven and
lacked a gearbox, they stirred up a regular furore. Bad
weather and more stringent regulations combined to
render this trial more exacting than the 1906 event over
the same course; but better and bigger engines enabled
the machines to camouflage their intrinsic climbing weaknesses, and the easy hills of the classic road proved less
formidable than formerly.
The Scott Bow to the Public.
In the same summer the annual hill-climb of the
Coventry and Warwickshire M.O. at Newnham, near
Daventry, witnessed the debut of the Scott two-stroke
bicycle. It was entered in three classes, and its easy triple
victory on formula was a tremendous facer for the local
experts, who were soundly thrashed on their own dunghill, by a quiet little stranger from Yorkshire. But it was
not the efficiency of the Scott which was the main element in this debacle. Alfred Scott had clearly cleansed a
sound engineering brain of all pushbike memories, and
tackled the motorcycle as a distinct proposition. His
machine could be ridden in an ordinary overcoat without
soiling the rider. It had a proper kickstarter in lieu of the
absurd pedalling gear or the undignified “ run and push.”
A two-speed gear was built into the frame, and served
both to start the outfit from rest and to ascend almost
any hill, nor did the gear render the machine more difficult to ride. Last, but not least, the engine had a pleasant
sound, and differed from every known power unit—
except the Douglas in that it was practically vibrationless.
The Coventry and Birmingham magnates went home to
sleepless pillows, and not without due reason.
1909.
1909 is a golden year in the annals of motorcycling,
for it heralded the solution of transmission problems. It
saw the first break with the timorous policy in which the
inherent defect of motorcycles was camouflaged by a
deceitful avoidance of really steep hills. Unfortunately the
credit of the innovation must be awarded to some amateur sportsmen who formed the committee of the
Edinburgh M.C.C., and who cannily forced the hands of
the A.C.U. and of the British trade. All the cognoscenti
knew that hill-climbing was the Achilles’ heel of the
motor bicycle. The. trade could find no remedy. British
clubs dared not offend the trade. British riders could
65
generally invent detours by which unclimbable hills could
be avoided. But the Scottish clubs were not under the
trade thumb, and knew that the Scottish riders required
powerful hill-climbing machines, since the Highland
precipices cannot always be circumvented. Consequently, in the first Scottish Six Days the riders were sent
up some formidable hills, commencing with Amulree on
the first day. This sturdy example reacted on the sportsmanship of the English clubs, and by the end of the year
the chief surviving defect of motorcycles had been
thrown into high relief. The trade bowed its head, and
began to scheme and plan.
spectators were not numerous in remote regions, and
that riders received very little assistance in pushing to the
summits. It was recorded that three men arrived at a
certain mountain after dark with but one serviceable lamp
between them. This lamp was placed at the disposal of
the one machine which hoped to clamber up the ascent
somehow. Finally the three men half-pushed and halfcarried the other two machines up the gradient. Riding in
Indian file they reached the destination for the night at
breakfast time next morning, and started punctually with
the rest of the riders. Still, the week was exceptionally
exhausting. Some of the less sporting riders vowed that
they would never compete in another Scottish event. The
trade, who had-received no advertisement and much
An Arduous Test Now a Hardy Annual.
The twenty-six unfortunates who entered for the first criticism as the result of the trial, determined to boycott
it in future. Yet these trials have become a hardy annual,
Scottish Six Days little knew what was in front of them.
and played an influential part in the propaganda on behalf
The official cars could neither keep up the required
of variable gears.
average speed nor surmount the terrific gradients; they
covered the course by dint of dodging all the more
difficult portions, and the ‘struggles of the single-geared
The A.C.U. Picnic of 1909.
motor bicycles are easier to imagine than describe. Not a
The A.G.U. Six Days of the same year was a picnic
single entrant was able to ride up Amulree Hill. The
by comparison. Three test hills were listed ; if Dinas
horrors of the hills were accentuated by the fact that
66
Mawddy and Birdlip were of satisfactory calibre, the
climb up to the Cat and Fiddle at Buxton could only be
described as contemptible. Twenty-five marks were
offered for a clean ascent of each hill, but only one rider
in ten earned seventy-five hill-climbing marks during the
week. As in previous years, most of the machines were
single-geared; to enter a variable gear was regarded as
the sign of being an old woman and no sportsman. The
improvement in the climbing was by this time largely
ascribable to adjustable pulleys, in which a remunerative
trade was done. The entire entry made a long pause at
the foot of any threatening ascent, whilst engine pulleys
were screwed down, and narrow belts, bedding deep in
the small pulleys, were fitted.
Many of these pulleys were of ingenious design,
operable without tools; with the aid of a patent belt
fastener, itself adjustable for length, only a few minutes
were occupied in lowering the gear from 4 to 6 to 1. This
was the equivalent of a variable gear, but prevented a
rider from taking a steep ascent in his stride.
The tricar was by this time temporarily extinct, and a
4 h.p. Zenith with sidecar was the solitary representative
of passengerr machines; it completed the course, but
lost too many marks to qualify for an award. This trial
finally sounded the knell of the policy of relying upon
local volunteers for checking purposes. A party of competitors were due at a certain check by, let us say, 3 p.m.
Encountering various troubles en route, they checked in
at 3.30 p.m. Discovering that the checker was a
half-witted boy, capable of being intimidated, they persuaded him to sign them in at 3 p.m. Presently it dawned
upon them that they were due at another check 20 miles
away at 4 p.m. and had about twenty minutes in which to
cover the distance. A few incidents of this character
suggested that it was essential to employ experienced
men as control clerks in future.
1910.
According to expectation, the next Scottish trials
secured few entrants. The trade shrank from heavy
expense without prospects of good advertisement ;
amateur riders fought shy of the Highland climbs. Nevertheless nineteen entries were secured, and it is significant
that seven of them were fitted with variable gears - by far
the highest percentage in any major trial up to date.
These gears produced evidence of a fresh alarming
67
defect. The engines had no safety cooling margin adequate for long grinds on a ratio of 8 to 1, or so. In
several cases the two-speeded machines climbed less
successfully than the older patterns.
Encouraged by the lead which Scotland had given
them, the A.C.U. actually announced that the classic End
to End route was too flat for the premier trial of the year,
and incorporated detours to stiffen up the hill-climbing
tests. Mirabile dicta, they sent the men up Cheddar
Gorge and Amulree. In spite of these additions the
course was childishly easy as compared with the Scottish routes. On the other hand, the English regulations
were far more stringent. The Edinburgh M.C.C. in those
days regarded their trial as a free and easy joyride for
sportsmen, and the competitor who got into difficulties
was not hampered if he chose to visit a local agent, and
procure a new cylinder of two-speed gear. In the southern event the regulations were stringent, and were enforced with as much Prussianism as the officials could
command. Seventy-one riders entered for the A.C.U.
trials, of whom twenty-one possessed variable gears.
This was a tremendous per-centage for zgio, but its
significance is shown by a com-parison with zg1g, when
every competitor had two gears, many had three, and
some had four. Out of this large entry eight men made
clean ascents of Amulree Hill. This was a better show
than the Scottish riders had put up. But a record of
sixty-three failures on one hill disposed of the trade
contention that the hill-climbing debacles in Scotland
were mainly ascribable to bad riding.
1911.
The end of the long struggle for the recognition and
adoption of the variable gear arrived in 1911, and, oddly
enough, it was a race rather than a reliability trial which
finally exposed the stupidity of the single gear. The
beginning of the end came when the A.C.U. with distinct
virility forced a race for small-engined machines upon a
reluctant trade; in this business there were wheels within
wheels, as a few firms (e.g. the Douglas Co.) had concentrated upon small engines, whilst the majority believed in 3-1/2 h.p. When the holding of a “Junior T.T.
Race “was determined upon, it was clear that such wee
engines could not race up Snaefell against a wind without
extraneous assistance of some sort. The people who
disbelieved in change gears attempted to allow the racers
68
to use pedalling gears. The opposition, aided by The
Motor Cycle, fought tooth and nail to forbid pedals : and
the opposition won. Thirty-four lightweights started in
the race, and only four of them had single gears, more
than half the remainder being fitted with the ArmstrongTriplex three-speed hub. Moreover, these baby machines
did astounding feats in practice, lapping the hilly course
at 42 m.p.h. and touching 55 m.p.h. along the straight
sections. These gears had only been adopted under
protest by the more conservative manufacturers, and
hardly any English makers had any intention of including
variable gears in ‘their 31 h.p. specification. In fact,
when the Senior race was first arranged, only two British
makers - Scott and P. and M. - intended to race with
change gears. The shrewd Collier Brothers thought the
matter out, and heard what some of the junior machines
were. doing in preliminary practice on British roads, so
they hastily got out a variable pulley type of gear, and
tests taught them that the innovation would pay. Two or
three other makers hastily faked up gears of some kind at
the eleventh hour-one firm, indeed, at the fifty-ninth
minute of the eleventh hour, for they were not able to
finish enough gears to supply all their team. The Indian
machines had a countershaft two-speed gearbox as a
standard fitting. The race was finally fought out by
change gear machines, the fastest single gear being
twenty minutes slower than the winning Indian. Incidentally, most of the single-geared 3-h.p. machines were
defeated for speed by many of the variably geared lightweights in the junior race. The long battle was over at
last, and as the crowds streamed back to Douglas after
the race, the variable gear enthusiasts chanted their Nunc
Dimittis (i.e., remarked with savage triumph, “ I told you
so.”).
Change Gears in Scotland.
The Edinburgh M.G.C., realizing that the new
trans-missions would stand the test, plotted an even
crazier course than usual for their Six Days. Fifteen
single-geared machines rode against twenty variable
gears; the new transmissions raked in ten of the fifteen
gold medals awarded, and what was far more vital, the
disgruntled conventionalists who pedalled and pushed
and panted had the mortification of watching the easy
and effortless climbs made by the machines which possessed the new fitments. They took their medicine like
69
men : but they secretly vowed that they would never
again go pothunting on single gears. At the end of this
trial a competitor celebrated the finish so successfully
that when he was put to bed in company with a hedgehog, he slept peacefully for nine hours in blissful unconsciousness of his pricklesome bedfellow.
Gears were now booming, and the whole atmosphere of motorcycling had become transformed. Instead of dreading hills, and plotting our tours with contour maps in order to avoid unpleasant acclivities, everybody went about looking for unclimbable hills, and
failing to find them. It cannot be pretended that our gears
were road-worthy, as judged by later standards. During
1911 I chiefly rode an Armstrong hub and an N.S.U.
engine shaft gear. The hub required oiling every loo
miles, demanded frequent adjustment, and benefited by
professional attention after 3,000 miles at the latest. The
engine shaft gear did not afford a lower emergency ratio
than 7 to 1, even with a small engine pulley and narrow
belt. Most of the con-temporary gears suffered from
equally serious faults. But after fifteen years of “ l.p.a.”
and worse, we naturally fancied the millennium was upon
us, and our lust for hills was unappeasable.
The Harrogate Trial.
The A.C.U. rode to triumph on the top of the movement. In 1910, as already stated the Six Days secured
seventy-one entries with twenty-one change gears.; in
1911 there were eighty-three entries, including no less
than sixty-five variably geared machines! Four sidecars
and a Morgan runabout composed the passenger class.
The trial was of the hub-and-spoke variety from
Harrogate as a centre.
The modern policy of trying to break the machines
up on disused goat tracks, or of setting them to baulk
and slither on shale slides with a gradient of 30 per cent.
had not yet been initiated. There were hills in plenty, but
they were not of the freak type. There were no boulders
to twist your wheels at right angles to the frame, no
morasses which might set a back tyre trying to excavate
the Antipodes. It was fair, steep gradient on a hard surface, with nothing more alarming than Sutton Bank.
Compared with a modern Six Days, the week was
doubtless trivial, but at the time we thought it heroic.
Sixty-five machines finished, of whom more than half
climbed every hill on the route with certainty and ease.
Well might one of the veteran pioneers remark in pro70
found disgust at the finish that the whole raison d’etre of
trials had now vanished. If we had but known it, there
was still a very long furrow to hoe. For example, the
bulk of the machines were still belt-driven, and many of
the current change gears embodied small engine pulleys.
The weather during the 1911 Scottish trials had been
very rainy, and incessant belt slip bothered most of the
men. In the Harrogate trials the weather was good, but
belt stoppages were far too common. We did not visualize the coming of the heavy sidecar outfits, and the
future yearning after a transmission which should be
weather-proof, and as generally reliable as a magneto.
1912.
From now onward each year’s reliability trials assumed a wholly different interest. In the old days we had
thirsted for a machine which should be equal to its job.
After 1911 we took it for granted that with average luck
most of the entrants would secure a gold medal, and the
technical interest was reduced to the Athenian habit of
hoping to encounter some novelty. On the other hand,
the trials witnessed keen trade competition, for each
maker sought to reap a better advertisement than his
rivals. Then the passenger entries grew in number. Finally
a comic element was imported by the financial anxieties
of the promoters. It was always on the cards that the
bulk of the starters would secure gold medals. Eighty or
a hundred gold medals make a formidable item in the
balance sheets of such an event , on more than one
occasion the organizers under-estimated the capabilities
of the machines, and were hard pressed to weed out a
few non-stoppers towards the end of the week. In fact,
sundry aggrieved riders still talk of torn scraps of paper
in this connection. In other respects the trials tended to
be spoilt by the unmanageable size of the entries. So
long as the number of starters kept within modest limits,
the riders were all chums, the officials could handle them
easily, there was no scrimmaging at garages to obtain
supplies, and no discomfort at the hotels. Indeed, under
the old regime of small entries a Six Days’ trial constituted the pleasantest summer holiday imaginable. Variable gears stripped the week of its old terrors, since the
hills no longer connoted losing a stone in weight and
contracting valvular disease of the heart. But the entries
became too bulky. The men no longer formed a snug
coterie of pals. The officials had to behave like con71
stables on duty at a Cup Final. To obtain lunch, petrol,
or oil resembled catching a tube train at Piccadilly Circus
after the theatre. The hotels were crowded out, and late
comers had to bribe the local scavenger to let them sleep
in his front parlour. One or two such experiences satisfied most amateurs, and the trials riders soon became
composed of a crowd of professionals, swollen by a
few stray amateurs who seldom repeated the experiment
after once sampling its frenzies. If the trials more than
retained their interest, they rapidly ceased to be enjoyable
in the old sense.
judges proposed to dispatch the entry up the Kenmore
side of Amulree Hill. This climb had never been included
in a car trial, and though a few of us had tried it, it was
reputed to be insuperable. The wilder spirits jumped to
the conclusion that the Club meant to deprive them of
their gold medals in the interests of economy. Finally the
officials astutely offered some more special prizes as a
bribe, and gave riders the choice of an easier detour,
should they wish to retire from the special awards. A
smoking-room was wrecked, and fireworks were exploded in the dining-room of a first-class hotel, but
peace reigned at last. Not so next morning. Rain fell in
torrents, and we all felt extremely depressed. My heart
Introduction of the Cycle Car in Trials.
ached for one gallant fellow who had backed himself to
Thus in 1912 no less than seventy machines started
earn a gold medal with a single-geared 3-1/2 h.p. racer.
in the Scottish trials, including three sidecars and two
He stripped his person and his machine of all dispensG.W.K. cycle cars. For once in a way the machines
able weight, posting on the kit to Edinburgh, prepared to
mocked at the hills, over which three-speed hubs affinish the run clad in little more than shorts, jersey and
forded a complete mastery, except when a belt gave
stockings, presenting a truly pitiable spectacle after a
trouble, or an outraged engine overheated, or the rider
few miles in the plenteous mud. Kenmore was not so
fell off as the result of a mud-and-boulder surface. Toterrible as we expected, most of the failures being due to
wards the end of the week a pretty pother arose. Several
a projecting reef of rock, which disturbs the steering and
special prizes had been offered, and some thirty riders all
induces tyre slip on the worst bend where the grade is
possessed clean sheets. In order to find winners the
also most severe.
72
Hill-Climbing in Devon.
The new atmosphere was, of course, faithfully
reflected in the 1912 Six Days trial organized by the
A.C.U., which was planned on the hub and spoke system from Taunton as a centre, in order to utilize the
infamous precipices of North Devon for hill tests. Nothing was excluded; we had to scramble up the stony
slough of Beggar’s Roost, which has a grade of 1 in 3;
Countisbury Hill, so recently regarded as unclimbable,
now figured as a slow climb. On the fourth day a “secret
route,” laid out by the local experts was followed. This
innovation has determined the main features of an
A.C.U. trial from that day to this. It made no pretence of
following hard roads, but wandered wherever a fearsome
gradient, an unspeakable surface, or a crazy corner
could be discovered. In sober fact, the “hush-hush“ day
at Taunton did not unearth any very frightful ordeals ; if
memory serves aright, sudden corners plastered with wet
farmyard manure were its most awk-ward features. But it
inspired the famous “freak hill“ policy. Since that date
club secretaries exhaust their ingenuity in discovering
tortuous lanes, surfaced with shale or naked rock or
mother earth (as the herds have left it), and towering up
skywards in a course which would be a spiral if it had
not been struck by forked lightning. Upwards of a hundred machines, including many sidecar combinations,
are injected into these rough and precipitous funnels.
The least clumsiness in driving, the tiniest imperfection in
engine-cooling, the faintest tendency of a back tyre to
lose its driving grip, and the rider is officially credited
with a hill failure, and probably misses his chance of a
first-class award.
Pro Bono Publico.
On the surface this policy appears foolish, for
motor-cycling is supposed to be a pleasurable hobby,
not a purgatory for acrobats. On the other hand, it is
expedient that one man should die for the people, or in
modern phrase, that a few madmen should immolate
themselves to subject motorcycles to the extremest test.
The trials rider of to-day is a martyr. He suffers in order
that milder persons may be provided with good machines. Indirectly the freak hill has done much good. Its
strongest point is that it is always approached and quitted by miles of rough going. Since the pundits do not
73
permit any reduction of average speed over these bad
sections, the crowd emerges from them considerably
behind the appointed time, and has to “blind“ or
“teetee“ in order to recapture lost minutes. By this
simple expedient everybody is pleased. The organizers
secure the fierce test which they have promised themselves. The police are truthfully assured that the contest
is run on a basis of 20 m.p.h. (nothing being said about
these “catch-up “ sprints). The riders are encouragednay, compelled-to speed at about 40 m.p.h..over the
scanty patches of good road which occasionally confront them. The bad machines are shivered to pieces, as
they deserve to be. The good machines go home with
the spoil in the shape of medals and prizes. And the
breed of motorcycles is steadily improved. Nevertheless
the words “ reliability trial “ convey an impression of
leisureliness which is quite illusive. My sensations in
modern trials riding may be summed up somewhat as
follows: Acute discomfort in overcrowded hotels; baiting
by jacks-in-office at the official garages; slithering,
plunging, balancing, wrenching, and biting my tongue in
half over Heath Robinson caricatures of the Somme
area; trying to average 50 m.p.h. over rare stretches of
hard going, full of corners, and either smeared with
grease or blotted out by whirlwinds of thick, gritty dust;
and finally competing in a frenzied crowd which is attempting to bulldoze the judges. Let nobody fancy that a
Six Days trial is not a strenuous week.
1913.
In the summer of 1913 the Scottish trial demonstrated the tendencies referred to above, and was otherwise remarkable for a marked increase in the entry of
passenger machines, seven sidecars and two G.W.K.
four-wheelers securing gold medals. The two worst hills
were Applecross and Kenmore. Applecross consists of
5 miles up and 5 miles down, with the usual there-andback corners and occasional knuckles of frightful gradient; as a test hill its most objectionable feature is the
surface-it is far more tiring to ride down Applecross than
to ride up any English trials hill. Kenmore is 2-1/2 miles
long, and contains four acute hairpins with very bad
surface. The A.C.U. adopted Carlisle as a venue, and
attracted 161 starters, in-cluding no less than forty-one
passenger machines. The severity of the conditions had
been overdone; most of the men were thoroughly
74
saddlesore at the end of the second day, and a mutiny
was threatened, but averted by sundry concessions. The
popular fallacy that the event might be regarded as a
picnic tour for easygoing amateurs was rudely shattered.
the 132 starters being intent on the very arduous work in
hand. The chosen routes were more “ colonial “ than
ever. Moreover, the regulations had been stiffened up,
and all manner of technical tests had been embodied.
Early on the first morning the riders talked of striking,
1914.
and a hill called Litton Slack led to extraordinary scenes.
The year of the war dawned without many people
When the officials selected the hill, it was dry; when the trials
suspecting that the cream of our competition riders would
competitors reached it, it was wet. Heavy rain robbed tyres
be transformed into dispatch riders or R.F.O. pilots before of their grip, and the men who stuck or fell off soon
they were much older. The usual programme was mapped
blocked the narrow road. In a few minutes the track was
out, and the Scottish trials were dated for June 15-20. Some jammed with angry men, smothered in clouds of blue
120 entries were obtained, and the hills were much as in the smoke, as each rider struggled to get his sweltering engine
previous year, for it was impossible to find any which were up the slithery climb. Everybody lost so much time that
worse. The machines, on the whole, made light of the trials. when the summit had been reached, a mad race to the next
Most of the contretemps were due to bad driving, as the
control station was necessary, and machines were knocked
event is treated as a conducted tour by amateurs who wish out by colliding with gulleys or boulders at speed. The
to see all the finest Scottish scenery, and few of these gentry roads did not improve as the week wore on, and the judges
can tackle the Scottish corners until their week’s practice is
relaxed many of their regulation’s under protests from the
almost completed.
riders. Such indignation was felt both by the trade and by
sporting amateurs that the whole policy of selecting freak
International affairs had assumed an ominous
hills and “colonial“ surfaces was a matter of controversy
appear-ance when the A.O.U. trials opened from
when war was declared, and competitions were practically
Sheffield as a centre on July 5; but motorcyclists are
seldom politicians, and few forebodings were expressed, suspended for four long years.
75
(1) The start of the A.C.C. Consumption Trials of 1905.
(2) Machines on test at Stoneleigh Hill near Coventry in
1919, showing 4 h.p. and Baby Triumphs, and Rover
and Lea-Francis machines.
(3) The five machines left in at the end of the 1905 Two
Hundred Miles Reliability Trial.
The riders are Messrs. Hall, Ilsley, Price, Lowe and
Hulbert.
Second from the left, with the goggles on his cap, is
Mr. C. W. Brown; between the two left-hand machines, Mr. Hunt - in the middle in the white oilskin,
Mr. Chester Fox - standing next to Mr. Huibert, Mr. F.
Jenkins; on the extreme right, Mr. W. H. Wells.
76
VIII. SIDECARS.
I CANNOT pretend that I have ever been a sidecar
devotee. In the early days of their history we all took to
them because there was no alternative, and in company
with other victims I suffered many things at their hands.
Later on they were perfected, but their appeal was limited. At the outset the charm of the sidecar was that it
enabled the owner of a motor bicycle to accommodate
another passenger at will; the typical sidecar of those
days was detachable, and a conversion could be performed in two or three minutes. Presently the idea of a
detachable sidecar was dropped, and the modern conception of a permanent three-wheeled chassis with a
powerful engine, detachable wheels, and other luxuries
replaced the old simplicity. Like many other riders, I
prefer a two wheeler to any vehicle on earth for solo
riding. But if circumstances compel me to take a companion, I prefer a vehicle which affords more comfort
and protection for the driver than any sidecar can supply. It so happens that both the three-wheeled and fourwheeled cyclecars fulfil this ideal, while their running
costs are not higher than those of the sidecar. For some
mystic reason the sidecar makes a profound appeal to
8. Sidecars
certain temperaments. There are skilled and sensible men
who infinitely prefer it to a Morgan or a quad. For me it
was never more than a temporary expedient, until such
time as cyclecars should become roadworthy. I sometimes fancy that chivalry is the basis of its popularity.
The sidecar chair is probably the best sprung seat afforded by any vehicle on the road, not excluding a
Barker body on a Rolls-Royce car; devout lovers bestow their ladies in its comfort, while they sit aloft on
mere saddles like a parrot on a perch.
When I bought my first sidecar, the chair was made
of cane or wicker; it was a chair, and not a canoe or a
coffin. There was nothing in front of the seat save a
shallow trough for one’s feet with a tiny sill in front. In
windy weather a sidecar was the coldest place on earth;
and if the outfit pulled up suddenly, the passenger ran
grave risks of being precipitated forwards. The sidecar
was fitted on the off or near side of the bicycle indifferently. I well remember my first attempt to mount the
saddle of a combination with a lefthand chair. As the
bicycle was singlegeared, I pushed off and ran alongside. The impending jump for the saddle threatened to be
awkward, as I always mounted bikes from the near side
77
but who could guess that my clumsy muscles would find
it impossible? I tiptoed beside the bike on my left foot,
waving my right leg desperately in the air; but saddles
were high in those days, and pluck to make the unaccustomed spring was lacking. Finally the engine gathered
pace and dragged the outfit out of my hands. The passenger emitted wild shrieks and made inexpert twitches
at the handlebar. For a few yards the machine made
serpentine tracks along the road centre: then the front
wheel took command, and the combination made a
lightning wheel into the nearside ditch. I lay on my stomach in the road, watching the catastrophe with mute
horror.
The Flexible Type.
In the matter of sidecar attachments there were at
least three schools of design. For a year or two the
Montgomery flexible type was the popular favourite; and
- given proper fittings - it was not at all bad. The first
sample which came my way was not a success. Its
previous owner had run it into a wall, and biffed the
chassis so that the steering “ wanted knowing,” as he
naively confessed. Its first trip measured 150 miles, and
8. Sidecars
was the very windiest journey (metaphorically speaking)
that I ever made. Ignorant of the machine’s history, I
took its vagaries as part of the nature of the beast, and
endeavoured to combat them by guile. The sidecar was
on the right-hand side, and on the first sharp corner
towards that side the bicycle suddenly lay steeply over
towards the sidecar, and pinched my thigh excruciatingly
between the tank and the chair. Rather abashed, I countered this evil trick by cocking my leg out of harm’s way
at righthand corners; that is, when I remembered, which
was not always. Presently the outfit got well down on the
camber of a wide road, and absolutely refused to climb
back on to the crown. We stopped, and solemnly lifted it
up on to the middle of the road. Then we talked. Then
the passenger and myself exchanged places, drove down
on to the camber again, and he took his turn at coaxing
her up again. Nothing doing. Eventually we tested the
alignment of the chasis, and found that half the tubes in
both the sidecar and the cycle frame were out of truth.
We rebuilt them both, and started all over again. The
engine concerned was a 7-9 h.p. Peugeot, and a few
months showed that the whole structure was too light for
such a speedy mount, driven as he and I used to drive it.
78
Either the sidecar shifted on the bicycle frame; or the
tyres tore their valves out; or the frames buckled. More
than once all three catastrophes occurred on one and the
same ride.
8. Sidecars
generally took the ditch, picked himself up angrily, and
foamed out remarks of a regrettable and actionable
character.
The Trailing or Castor-Wheel Type.
The Rigid Type.
Thus it came about that Mills and Fulford introThe rigid type of sidecar existed from the outset, but duced a patent castor-wheel sidecar, of which the
was regarded by many drivers as a dangerous beastie,
sidewheel trailed freely after the bicycle. For a time it
and by others as unmechanical. Such notions sound
was fancied that the super-sidecar had at last been born.
absurd in these days; but it is necessary to remember
Previous experience of sidecars had led me to eschew
that we were all tolerably ignorant, and that some quaint feminine passengers on this type of vehicle. But my first
abortions were foisted on us from time to time by the
castor-wheel, being low-powered and thoroughly well
minnows of the engineering trade. The courage of the
built, encouraged me to offer Amaryllis a lift. All went
first man to eat an oyster was no greater than that of the well till we conked out on a hill, and while I recovered
first wight who clambered on the unsprung saddle of the my breath after the usual “ l.p.a,” Amaryllis suggested I
first high pushbike; and he in turn was very little pluckier should climb the hedge and pick her some honeysuckle.
than the pioneers of the tricar and the sidecar. The only
Unfortunately I had chocked the machine on the gradient
miracle is that any of us still survive. Primitive prejudice with insufficient care, and as I struggled to extricate
against rigid sidecars was due to the fact that the front
myself from some brambles screams split the air. The
wheel is chiefly used to steer, whereas on a bicycle it is
sidecar was careering backwards down the hill and
also used to balance. At corners or on a cambered road gathering speed. Amaryllis was standing up in the chair,
the tyro would instinctively use his front wheel for
screaming like a stuck pig, with her eyes fixed on the
balanc-ing purposes, and forget all about steering. So he castor-wheel. This wheel, obeying the laws of its nature,
79
was slowly turning on its pivot, and was already sticking
out at right angles to the bicycle frame. Amaryllis decided not to await the unknown calamities which she
foresaw might happen when the castor-wheel had finished castoring. She dived overboard, and landed
heavily. Time heals all wounds, and looking back from
the summits of calm middle age this incident was less
regrettable than it sounds. She would not have made me
a good wife.
8. Sidecars
mechanism. Nevertheless it is obvious that cyclecars are
overhauling sidecars fast in general quality ; and as the
price standards approach each other, the sidecar may
find it hard to survive, so far as éditions de luxe are
concerned.
The Special Merits of a Sidecar.
Nowadays the sidecar is a vastly different proposition. It has two main merits as contrasted with the
cyclecars which are its most threatening rivals. The first
is the magnificent steering lock which it affords. No
other two-seater can be swung right round in its own
length, and in steering handiness the sidecar thus surpasses every other motor except the motor bicycle : this
docility is a great asset in freak hill work. Its second
advantage is that its main component is a motor bicycle ;
...screams split the air. The sidecar was careering
and the motor bicycle is far more developed than any
backwards down the hill and gathering speed. Amaryllis
existing cyclecar, whilst users as a class are thoroughly
was standing up in the chair, screaming like a stuck pig...
familiar with the management and upkeep of such
80
IX. ROADSIDE TROUBLES.
THE cynical pedestrian who passes a motorcyclist
tinkering with his machine by the roadside seldom
pauses to reflect that such moments are not sheer misery, but have very distinct consolations of a peculiar
character: When a tyre bursts or an engine seizes or a
chain snaps, no Anglo-Saxon expletive is adequate to
express one’s first impulses. But ripe experience teaches
us wisdom. Each stoppage assures the rider of at least
two compensations. Relief of some sort is inevitable;
whether it be relief at continuing one’s journey or at
completing the exhausting push to the nearest railway
station, time alone can show. Secondly, when the mortification and labour are over, there will be a tale to be told.
Aye, and retold, for motorcyclists are inveterate
reminiscerators (I am not sure that this world is in the
dictionary; if it isn’t, it ought to be). The tale may require
adorning with a few deftly invented embellishments, but
as a rule the motorcycle is such an ingenious troublemaker that the sufferer must be a raconteur of more than
average merit if he is to do bald justice to the plain facts.
In the earlier days of the pastime riders were assured
very special rewards for each road stop.
9. Roadside Troubles
According to Kipling, there are nine and ninety ways
of composing tribal lays. Even at this late hour in the
story of our hobby there remain something like a billion
ways in which a motorcycle can go wrong. The knowledge of them is as inexhaustible as that of women; and
of the two creatures the motorcycle is ineffably the more
capricious and whimsical. Even now I am awaiting delivery of a new machine; and a delirious tremor possesses
me as I realize that the charming toy will stall me by the
roadside in sundry fashions as yet unexperienced in
perhaps 200,000 miles of roadwork. Still for veterans
like myself, eleven stops out of twelve have ceased to be
fundamentally novel. In the early days it was not so. We
were abysmally ignorant of the machines we rode. Incredible to relate, many of us ventured afield upon them
without the gloomiest notion as to what the exhaust valve
was for. When we gingerly handled some strange fitting
which we found hanging loose, we emulated the sensations of an island cannibal whose teeth have gritted on
the missionary’s watchkey. Probably we did not succeed
in getting the mysterious steed to go any farther; but if
we did, we had made a definite advance in knowledge,
and rejoiced accordingly. Even now the lingering savour
81
of these ancient joys occasionally returns to us. For
example, my 1920 mount is to have a lighting dynamo - a
terra incognita to me. Already I picture myself plunged
into sudden darkness when careering down a curly lane
at 40 miles an hour. I see myself jamming on all the
brakes and the low gear; pulling up in a few yards; and
dissecting the entrails of the latest jigsaw by the fitful
gleam of matches.
little faults have been exorcised. But the engine, the
magneto, the carburetter, the gearbox, and other vital
elements are extremely complex and subjected to very
high strains. They seldom give any trouble at all; but
when they do, a skilled mechanic with special plant may
be required to restore them to working order.
During my own salad days a roadside stoppage was
almost invariably occasioned by one of three causes.
The commonest was failure to climb a hill. The most
baffling was an ignition fault. The most monotonous was
Service.
a broken or slipping belt. All three figured in absolutely
As I ransack memory, ‘I note with surprise that the
troubles of the prehistoric days were generally soluble, in every single ride. “Tut, tut,” objects the reader, “you
spite of a crude machine, an ignorant rider, and the utter don’t mean to tell me that a five mile spin to the golf
absence of skilled assistance or that modem profiteering links . . . ‘Pardon me, sir, but no man was hardy enough
in replacements which is euphemistically termed “service in those days to take out a motorcycle unless serious
business was afoot. A road stop might easily last half a
“ by trade magnates. The explanation of this puzzle is
day, when even the sparking plug might be well reprenot far to seek. Engines in those days were heavy and
inefficient. They did not develop enough power to stress sented by the mathematical symbol x. If we meant to
play tennis with our best girl at 2.30 p.m., we did not set
themselves at all severely, and they did not run reliably
out per motorbike. In all human probability we should
enough to be driven distances which would wear, them
out. Consequently, most of our stops were due to some not arrive until next day.
rubbishy little fitting. The belt broke, or a valve cotter
jarred out, or a wire came adrift. Today all these obvious
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Hill-Climbing in 1900.
Of the abovementioned troubles, hill stoppages
evoked a species of exhaustion unknown in any other
sport except rowing. When I see the stroke of an eight
collapse in the boat after a manful effort to avoid defeat
over four miles of water, I know exactly what he feels.
The spectacle takes me back twenty years. Once more in
spirit I am trying to get a 1-1/2 h.p. (nominal, bien
ennendu) motor bicycle up a milelong hill. I am lying
breathless and purple by the roadside after a desperate
effort to restart the engine or push the quiescent and
incredibly weighty monstrosity up the last fifty yards
which separate me from ease and triumph. My coats are
secured to the carrier by the knotted belt. I put in many
yards of infuriated pedalling three-quarters of a mile
lower down, when the labouring engine was doing 100
pops a minute, and my legs were reciprocating at 2,000
revolutions a minute on a 56 in. pedalling gear. I dismounted and ran alongside until my eyes started from
my head, and my heart or some other bulky internal
organ clambered up my gullet and stuck in my larynx.
Then I flopped on the road, and panted like the exhaust
of a 50 h.p. gas engine, eke perspiring until my tissues
must have been like sunbaked sheet iron. Then I shoved
the uncouth projectile up a byroad and charged down at
a tangent into the road once more. After repeating all
these herculean struggles ad lib. I began to feel as the
stroke of that eightoar feels. And I got up the last fifty
yards of the hill in some such unconscious stupor as that
which descended on the Old Contemptibles in the concluding stages of their epic retreat from Mons.
Stops Chiefly a Question of Minute Inspection.
Ignition stops were encouraging. Sooner or later we
generally discovered what was wrong; and at the worst,
there was no lethal physical effort involved. The toil was
chiefly visual. If a companion was handy, each of you
took one side of the machine for inspection. Jones uncovered the contact breaker, saw that the wire was tight
and not shorting, that platinum was well and truly present
in both blade and screw, twanged the blade to test its
spring, and verified the adjustment of the points. I, as the
responsible owner, undertook the battery side; because
an incautiously shorted battery spelt genuine disaster.
Batteries were carried in cupboards curiously arranged
inside the petrol tank. The reason of the stop-page was
83
twofold; since the tank was of metal, it was prone to
shortcircuit the battery terminals; further, the wires had to
emerge through holes punched in the metal, and the
sharp edges of the hole were well calculated ‘to slice the
wires in half or chafe them through.
Thus were the elementary principles of electricity
imparted to thousands of youngsters who would otherwise never have learnt them. As a rule I should find that
an old glove had slipped down behind the battery, so
that a terminal was earthing against the tank top; a few
wooden wedges cut from the hedgerow might set this
straight.
If a diagnosis was not reached so early, we extended
the inquiry. There was a microscopic and watchlike
switch, inside one of the handlebar grips-inaccessible,
flimsy, and invisible. There was usually an interrupter
plug block on the top tube-a frank, substantial, John Bull
sort of gadget, incapable of deceit, but guileful in the
dark. Did I not once push a 200-lb. machine from the
front at Ilfracombe to the summit of the mountain behind
the town, because in the darkness I fancied the interrupter plug was in its block, and not, as events proved,
in my waistcoat pocket? Then the coil had to be exam-
ined, but was usually innocent. Cheap French sparking
plugs, with porcelain of inconceivable fragility and electrodes of florist’s wire could not be expected to last
long; but what matter when 12s. 6d. was their outside
price?
Plain and Trembler Coils.
I shall always regret the demise of the trembler coil. I
should explain for the benefit of any ignorant reader that
such coils emit a low, hoarse buzz when contact is made
and the circuit is in order. I graduated on to them from
the plain coil. I had spent hours tracking a departed
current, which was always inaudible and temporarily
invisible; such currents can play hide-and-seek with a
novice, as a dryad does with a satyr. Joyful was the
change to a coil which gruffly reported “All right“ when
one repaired the circuit.
Ancient and Modern Transmissions.
The prehistoric transmission had one merit lacked
by its modern successors-it was always repairable. The
“ boot-lace “ belt with its miniature meathook could
84
always be faked up to propel a machine along the level.
If the modern transmissions let a rider down, which
seldom happens, he is in for a stormy time. Later on,
during a transition period, we suffered far more acutely.
The early Vee belts slipped and snapped in the most
amazing fashion. More than once I have struggled home
with a jangling belt consisting mostly of assorted fasteners united by odd inches of belting. When the first
clutches and two-speed gears arrived on the scene, our
fate was even more tragic. The chief talking point of
these clutches was that they enabled us to save petrol
and cool our engines by coasting downhill. Some of
them in angle and diameter bore a not too distant resemblance to the business end of a wax candle. If they went
in at all, they stuck closer than a brother; and the machine leapt a foot off the ground. One day the inventor
of a superclutch lent me his own machine, on condition
that I returned it without fail that night. The clutch was in
the rear hub, and the rear spindle was solid with the
wheel and revolved in bearings mounted - in the fork
ends. That spindle seized up solid. I could not ride the
machine. I could not push the machine. I actually carried
it to the railway station; at least, I carried the rear half of
it, pushing the front wheel along the road, perambulatorwise.
An Early Two-Speed Gear.
Gears, of course, presented more prospects of
trouble than clutches, which was saying much. The first
two-speed gear on which I ventured a long ride, was
capable of de-veloping slip at three points ; and was thus
far more exacting than a belt, which only slips on the
engine pulley. That gear suffered from chronic slip at all
the appointed places. Moreover it was secured to the.
crankshaft by a nut of, weird contours, and when I was
halfway through the premier trial of the year, it elected to
spit that nut into a pheasant covert when I was travelling
at 40 miles an hour. I found the nut in time, but my gold
medal had long since evaporated.
Another of the early gears was well spoken of,
because it had a complete drive from engine to back
wheel on each gear. So, quoth the inventor, if top gear
fails, you finish the ride on bottom gear. I obeyed this
maxim next day, but the nett effect was that my engine
literally welded its piston to the cylinder twelve miles
85
from my destination. I say “welded,” because we first
broke the parts in the effort to unseize them, and then
sawed the seize across, to see what it looked like. “Weld
“ was the right term.
Epicyclic hubs added yet another terror to motorcycling. The early ones were very heavy, very expensive,
and very full of friction; inserting low gear felt like jamming on all brakes and nearly jerked one over the handlebar. The behaviour of all the primitive examples was
similar. They functioned fairly well for a week or two,
except that the friction on low gear just about balanced
the utility of the low ratio. Then the gear suddenly began
to make a noise like a lawnmower on both gears. Finally,
a fearsome metallic scrunch was heard in the land, and
all the small internal parts, whose name was certainly
Legion, were violently ejected. To be precise, the latter
end of these gears varied in one respect. Some of them
ejected their entrails through the end of the hub, and
others through the side. Finally the Armstrong Triplex
hub came along, followed by the Sturmey-Archer, and
compensated for the untold horrors of the past.
Shedding the Smaller Accessories.
I am not at all sure that the whole of the present
chapter up to this point is not grossly untrue. Now that
memory has begun to bubble, I wonder whether a general shaking loose of all fittings and accessories may not
have been the most persistent trouble in the early days.
Let me quote examples. In the first place, the hooter
would of course strip the threads of its bolts, and commence a jazz along the handlebar. That was a trifle,
curable by insulating tape and straps. Then the spring
back hinge of the acetylene lamp would suddenly collapse, so that the carbide well played the devil’s tattoo
on the steering head. The standard remedy for a broken
lamp spring back hinge consisted of carving a rectangular piece of timber from the nearest fence, and stuffing it
between the upper and lower portions of the hinge as a
distance piece. This was a temporary cure : but the next
phases consisted of shedding the lamp glass, lamp door,
carbide chamber, reflector and burner seriatim upon the
highway. Ridiculous as it sounds, I have more than once
returned home with no more of a new lamp than the
water chamber and part of the bracket. This too was
trivial, the remedy being a new lamp. You opine that our
86
lamp bills must have been excessive ? Not at all. One
night-ride a year sufficed for most of us. And no wonder.
The process of disintegration proceeded slowly, but
surely. The rear stand was an aggravating culprit in this
respect. Let me premise that a stand is a luxury to-day,
but was then a necessity. Our machines were lofty,
topheavy and minus foot-rests. They were not too easily
propped up, and troubles were so frequent that a prop
was a vital accessory. One pattern took the form of a
double cast-iron tripod, pivoted at the rear spindle ends,
and secured by straps to the back of the saddle when
out of action. When the strap broke, the rear crossbar of
this stand hit the road, whop. The stand then dissolved
into its component parts. Another favourite type
con-sisted of two separate legs, each secured to spring
quadrants on the chain stays by means of four small
bolts. These bolts naturally vibrated loose, when the leg
and quadrant would waltz gaily along the chain stays till
they kissed the revolving spokes and wrenched them out
of the hub, or rim, or both.
Insecure Tank Attachments.
This catalogue by no means exhausts the possibilities of vibration. I seldom essayed a long ride without
verifying my tank attachments; and on a aoo mile run the
tank would quite commonly work adrift. Lucky was the
rider who detected its tremors before his oil and petrol
pipes or electric wires had reflected the consequences.
Of dancing batteries, adrift inside metal containers, the
less said the better. After a plethora of such tragedies I
made a rule of carrying a small 8-ampere hour cell in
reserve. This wise plan coincided with the purchase of a
very fancy motorcycling suit, for which Dunhill charged
me many shekels. Innocent as to the properties of
sulphuric acid, I stored the spare battery in a pocket of
the said suit, of which one side wilted to flinders in less
than an hour. Then I paid a lordly sum to Gamage for a
metal-lined leather battery case. Gamage had
under-estimated the malice of the acid. As it could not
destroy his armoured case, it leaked out at the four
corners, and ate through the unarmoured straps by
which the case was attached to the machine. The battery
then dived heavily into the road, and the resultant shock
shook all the paste off its grids.
87
Engine Failures.
While I am summarizing the caprices of many machines which I owned during a long period of years, I
must not pretend that the early engines were absolutely
unreliable. Serious fractures were quite extraordinarily
rare. Perhaps the commonest was the descent of a gudgeon pin set-screw into the crankcase, which might have
serious results. Sheared pins in timing gears were by no
means unknown, but were easily mended by the roadside
: at a pinch a French nail, duly filed to fit, would meet the
case. Broken valves were rarities, though broken cotters
were common enough. On one occasion my engine
stopped, and not until next morning did I discover that
the stem of the inlet valve was only attached to the head
by a single thin flake of metal, so that all compression
was lost. Sunt lacrinu rerum, when I think of one lovely
engine which came into my possession about 1905. It
more than realized all my dreams for a month. Then one
night in Scotland it commenced to pull somewhat feebly.
It grew worse and worse, and at 2 a.m. on the lonely
summit of the Grampians I discovered that the tappets
had eaten through the case-hardening of the cams, and
had ploughed them as round as cheeses. Yet even then
fortune smiled, for a machine miraculously appeared
from nowhere, and towed me to a hotel.
Adjustable Tappets.
The first adjustable tappets flummoxed a good many
of us. They used to elongate themselves on the road, as
the result of vibration; and presently the inlet valve could
not open to admit a charge of gas, nor the exhaust valve
lift enough to dispose of the fumes. A modern rider
would tumble to such a happening in a few seconds. He
has been educated by the technical press, by intercourse
with experts, and by reading clever little handbooks. I do
not think I was ever baulked by a plain case of a
self-adjusting tappet. But I was ingeniously swindled by
such a fitting in indirect fashion. I grew tired of these
new patent tappets, and employed a varlet to turn me up
a brace of plain, solid tappets. Then I took the machine
out on the road at midnight, and presently it grew weary.
I suspected everything except the tappets till dawn came,
when, lo! it proved that the varlet had left one solid
tappet on the bench and fitted a self-adjusting tappet to
my exhaust valve.
88
The Prehistoric Brake.
My Odyssey would be grossly incomplete if I said
nothing about brakes. The prehistoric brake was separated from those of to-day by a veritable chasm. I have
ridden a motor bicycle with a spoon brake which operated on the tread of the front tyre; and this atrocity was
mild compared with some of the crimes against mechanical laws which once disfigured our roads - did I not
once bestride a bicycle alleged to be driven by a rubber
wheel on the crankshaft, which was pressed against the
tread of the rear tyre? Still I cannot remember an epoch
in which spoon brakes were standard. Most of my early
mounts had two rim brakes. The front sample was constructed wholly of steel, and operated by a plated lever
about 15 in. long beneath the left handlebar grip, its pivot
being on the righthand side of the steering head. Crude
as such brakes were, they were better than those on our
rear wheels, which took the form of a gigantic horseshoe, controlled by a Bowden wire. I am well aware that
Bowden wires are made to withstand strains running into
hundreds of tons. The fact that they broke so regularly
must be ascribed to bad fitting. Of course, the shoes
dropped off, and the adjusters slacked back, and all the
little plated clips by which the pulloff springs and the
horseshoe and the stopbridge were assembled used to
litter the roads.
Coaster Hub Brakes.
There were even worse brakes in the prehistoric
period. For example, some machines had coaster hubs,
which were once the standard brake of all American
motorcycles. Few swerves compare in terror with that
produced by the sudden seizure of a coaster hub brake
on a motorcycle travelling at speed. Others had external
band brakes, usually of about 4 inches - diameter. These
were always on or always off. ‘In the former instance
their chief function was to emit an extremely noxious
smell until the leather had been charred away, after which
they rattled. ‘For myself, I wore large nailed boots, and
jammed my feet hard down on the road when I wanted
to stop. Instinct dies hard, and even now an emergency
sometimes makes me forget that the modern brake possesses real stopping power-down go my feet with a bang
when an old lady in the middle of the road drops her
umbrella and hesitates.
89
Unreliability Beaten at Last.
An altogether unprecedented type of motorcycle
began to appear about 1907 when the single-geared
Triumph was developed, and inspired other designers.
Substantial designs built from really good materials
became common, and our old struggles ended for ever.
These machines did not shed parts along the road. Their
engines de-veloped plenty of power, and did not fade
away to nothing after a little work. Magneto ignition
proved extra-ordinarily reliable, and cut down the catalogue of trouble by 50 per cent. at one swoop. Adjustable pulleys and rubber belts transformed our transmissions, and endowed us with reasonable hill-climbing
capacity. In fact, motor-cycling became rather dull, and
we could only recapture the lost atmosphere of adventure and effort by going out of our way to discover freak
hills. Once a hobby for maniacs, motorcycling showed
signs of degenerating into a utilitarian locomotion ; and
this process has been steadily intensified ever since.
Even the tyre bogey has lost its threats. The tyres of my
first machines were no thicker than those of a tandem
pushbike, and were apt to deflate if one ran over some
hedgecuttings. The modern tyre fears nothing much less
formidable than a shivered champagne magnum; and if it
should puncture, you insert a new tube, or change a
wheel, or mend the hole with a modernized patch which
adheres as closely as a dun. In fact, my sole really grievous experiences with tyres during the last few years have
all occurred in competition, where the time factor complicates matters. I once com-peted in a Scottish trial, and
knowing the “gashly“ qualities of the Highland tracks, I
fitted an enormous Dreadnought cover with a tread like a
teak plank. Woe is me, my carrier came adrift on the first
day, and slit the cover to the bone. By some miracle I
completed the day’s run with the flap of my toolbag
inserted inside the cover as a gaiter. At nightfall I commenced a frenzied search for a spare cover. No local
trader stocked tyres, but it so happened that a new firm
had entered several machines for the trial, and that each
hotel was supplied with spare covers for these men. I
begged one. It was of the light path-racing variety. Each
of the remaining five days brought me punctures galore,
and every morning in the fifteen minutes allowed by the
rules for repairs I fitted a new wafer-thin cover.
90
Wired on Cover in the T.T.
Or again during T.T. practice in the Isle of Man I
ascended the mountain breakfastless at 3 a.m. to practise
highspeed cornering. My tyres were of the wire-edged
variety. Presently as I hummed down a brief straight at
60 m.p.h. the back wheel picked up a nail, and went flat.
Racing men are familiar with the fight for balance which
occurs under such circumstances. When the mad minute
was over, I surveyed my back wheel. Since nothing but
the inflation pressure locates such covers on the rim, the
tire had “spun“ round in the rim, and ripped the valve
out of the tube. I had no spare tube, no patches, no
solu-tion. My pals were busy trying to put up record lap
times, and had no eyes for the forlorn little figure squatting on wet moss in the mist. Towards 8 a.m. a Good
Samari-tan of a pressman paused to inquire why I was
weeping by the roadside, and engaged to send somebody out from, Ramsey with a spare tube. The messenger arrived by 9 a.m. and by 9.30 my chilled fingers had
effected a repair. Thoughts of ham and eggs put new life
into me, and I dropped off the summit of Snaefell at 70
m.p.h. Bang went the back tyre again, and the previous
tragedy was re-enacted on another patch of road. To-
wards noon a pathetic figure pottered up to his hotel at
about io miles an hour, vociferating freely on the subject
of wire-edged covers. A professor of English Literature
once asserted that the average Briton has a vocabulary of
about 3,000 words. Mine is much, much larger, and I
owe this gift of fluency mainly to the inspirations of the
motor bicycle.
As Reliable as the Train.
By the time war broke out roadside troubles had
become rare occurrences. We start out on our machines,
and are considerably surprised if they do not register a
nonstop, be the journey in question a gentle potter of a
few miles or a prolonged summer tour. The man who
desires a spice of trouble to figure in his riding may still
provoke or procure it by devious means. For example,
he may purchase a thoroughly bad make of machine, of
which a few samples still inexplicably survive.. Or he
may habitu-ally drive a good machine very much faster
than is whole-some for it. Or he may treat a complicated
assembly of machinery like a doorscraper, when sheer
neglect will sooner or later breed annoyances. Or he may
enter his mount for a Six Days Trial, in which case the
91
combina-tion of appalling surfaces, freak gradients, and high
speed will probably confront him with an urgent problem or
two. But ordinary riding has lost its old savour of ex-citement
and uncertainty. The modem machine is almost as reliable as a
train, and if it ran upon a steel track might be equally dull.
=======================================
(1) F. W. Applebee with a 1903 Rex. Mr. Applebee, although
not a young man seventeen years ago when this photograph
was taken, has been a famous rider from that day to this,
and in the 1920 T.T. was awarded the Nesbit prize for pluck
and endurance.
(2) Mrs. Turner, one of the earliest lady riders, on a Norton
machine with Clement-Garrard engine of 1903.
(3) C. R. Collier, the brother of H. A. Collier, on a 1904 Racing Matchless. The Collier Brothers have been the producers
of the Matchless machines since 1903.
92
X. INNS.
H OTELS are responsible for a formidable item in
the annual budget of the average motorist, and that an
item which is seldom taken into account when the first
purchase of a machine is planned. An aunt dies, and
leaves us £zoo. We can at last afford to buy a motorcycle, but can we afford to run it ? We estimate an annual mileage, and put down certain sums for petrol, oil,
replacements, and the like. Yes, the income will just run
to it. Twelve months later we sit gloomily over a heap of
unpaid bills and contemplate embezzlement. There was
only one error in the spring estimates. We completely
omitted hotels. To feed or sleep at a hotel is infinitely
more expensive than to perform these natural functions
at home ; and since the motorcycle is an irresist-tible
incitement to travel, it simply compels its owner to frequent hotels. I shudder to think what sum I have transferred to the pockets of hotel keepers in twenty years of
motorcycling.
10. Inns
to make an onslaught on the Lands’ End-John o’ Groats
record somewhat late in the season, when the nights
were turning cold. I arrayed myself for this arctic jaunt in
the sort of suit which Shackleton wears when he trie to
reach the Pole. I smashed my piston within reach of an
extremely fashionable Scotch caravanserai, and determined to wait for spares and renew my efforts from the
northern end. As luck would have it, a St. Luke’s summer set in. I had only the one suit, which was lined with
thick sheet rubber. The local tailor had no reachme-downs which would suit my proportions. The spares
were long in coming. I spent five days in my bedroom,
reading fifth-rate novels selected by the boots at the
railway bookstall, for I could not venture forth in shirt
sleeves, nor bear the heat of my one jacket till the sun
had set. The bill was at the rate of two guineas per diem.
A Hotel Adventure in the Midlands.
On another occasion I set out to ride from Penzance
to London on a Bank Holiday, and left my sovereign
Stranded in Scotland.
purse on the dressing-table in Cornwall. The loose coppers and silver in my pocket lasted me up as far as
Memories of hotels range from the tragic to the
ridiculous. Many years ago circumstances compelled me Gloucester-shire, but by the late afternoon my petrol
93
supplies were getting low, and I was mad with thirst and
hunger. I called on various friends, all of whom had gone
away for August. At last, I staggered into an inn, half
mazed with exhaustion, and addressed the proprietress :
“ Look here, I have no money : can I have dinner and a
bed?” She not unnaturally had me thrown out, my appearance being the reverse of prepossessing after two or
three hundred miles in clouds of dust. In my rage I was
sobered to wisdom. I selected a smart hotel, handed my
machine to the ostler, chartered a good bedroom, enjoyed a hot bath, enjoyed a splendid dinner, with beverages to suit, slept well, breakfasted better, and sent for
the manager. “I have no money,” I began, lamely enough.
“ Certainly, sir,” he interrupted briskly, “how much do
you want ?” I have a bad memory for faces, but he
happened to know who I was.
Hotels possess few pleasant associations for motorists. It is true that we generally arrive with perfectly
wolfish appetites after a day at speed in the open air, and
that almost any sort of dinner goes down well, provided
there is plenty of it ; but what is there to be done after
dinner, unless one is of the type that goes out to philander with promenading shopgirls or is content to linger
10. Inns
for a couple of hours at the bar? The tourist is possibly
alone, knows nobody in the town, has no passion for the
cinema, and is not a billiard player. There is nowhere to
sit in the average English inn (except the bar); nothing to
read (except a few farming publications and a Bible
provided by a commercial travellers’ association); and it
is too dark to inspect the neighbourhood.
The Motorcyclists’ Revenge.
At a swagger hotel one is even less comfortable, for
oil-stained breeches and fingers marked with rubber
solution are out of place at the Grand Babylon Hotel,
and both the staff and the guests let you know it. Occasionally the motorcyclist retorts. On one occasion a
horde of rather wild spirits competing in a trial put up for
the night at a hotel which was just not firstclass. It was
run by a rather tactless manager, who told the motorcyclists quite plainly that they were only half-welcome, and
segregated them from his usual customers in indifferent
rooms, besides giving them second-rate fare and
second-rate attention. Before midnight the gang were in
entire possession of the premise. The lounge looked as if
it had been shelled, and much of its furniture was se94
10. Inns
curely wired to the summits of some very tall elms in the
grounds. There was no real excuse for such conduct. It
cannot be denied that motorcyclists are a nuisance to
hotelkeepers. They only stay for one night, and they
import an amazing quantity of dirt in that time; I have
often been thoroughly ashamed at the state of my bedroom when I left it after scraping myself down for dinner.
prevented a serious accident. The event was run off
without much incident, except that the roar of that hurtling lift must have given some of the guests a wakeful
night. However, the least sober member of the party,
who had been sadly beaten for speed, refused to go to
bed unless he was allowed one more chance to show
what he could do. He took the lift up to the top at such a
speed that it jammed well above the highest landing.
When he realized that it was impossible to extricate him,
his panic-stricken screams resounded down the corriA Lift Adventure.
dors. Finally he blubbered himself to sleep, and gave no
When we are entertained in large numbers, we are
more trouble till an electrician extricated him next mornapt to be racketty, and there are certain towns in Ening.
gland, Wales and Scotland where the bigger establishIn the early days an hotel, even if it was five miles
ments have no wish to receive us again. On the eve of
away, often appeared to us much as a lifeboat must
another trial some fifty of us were staying in a quiet
figure to sailors clinging to the rigging of a wrecked ship.
family hotel, and the officials contrived to restrain the
Many years ago three of us trudged miles from an aban“boys“ until a fairly late hour, when the premises were
doned car on a winter’s night, and at last sighted an
left in charge of the night porter. Six or eight of the riders
inconceivably friendly light in the distance at 2 a.m. It put
then proceeded to award a large prize for whosoever
new life into us, and we padded hopefully on. As we
should drive the electric lift from the top to the bottom
drew near, we saw the glint of a signboard, and became
of the liftwell in the shortest time. None of them had ever
assured that the light was downstairs. Dreams of food
managed a lift before, and nothing but mechanical genius
arose. As soon as we knocked the lamp was extin95
guished; and we had almost battered the door down
before a surly figure threw up a bedroom window and
refused admit-tance. What had been happening downstairs?
The Ferryman.
Fate can be very cruel at times. A prehistoric motor
once failed me at midnight in strange country, and as the
night was balmy I decided to sleep by the roadside, and
did so. When the sun rose, I consulted an indifferent
map, and found that the nearest village was apparently
some four miles away, and on the opposite side of a
good-sized river. I staggered off, and in due time arrived
at the river bank. There were no signs of a village. I cast
up and down the shore, and at last spotted a small house
on the further bank. When I got opposite to it, it appeared to be an inn, and I ahoyed and shouted in vain. I
tried to swim across, but got cramp a few yards out, and
returned. By this time I was very cold, hungry and cross.
After a lot more shouting, a blind went up, and a man
peered through the window. With maddening deliberation
he shaved, dressed, and at last emerged. He embarked in
a punt and poled over towards me, whilst I blessed
10. Inns
whatever gods there be. Ten yards from my bank he
stopped. “Did you want to get across?” I replied eloquently. “Because this isn’t a public ferry,” he remarked
as he poled back.
Welcome at an Inn.
Certain inns are always pleasant places to visit, and
glow with a special glamour for all good motorcyclists.
Some of them may be named-John o’ Groats House, the
Lands’ End Hotel, and the Blue Bird, where the
Brooklands experts foregathered. Others are the secret
of the elect-those rare houses on each long trek where
the motorcyclist is assured of a warm welcome, good
food, cosy accommodation, and a reasonable bill, despite his dirtiness. Such hostelries deserve advertisement, but we do not recommend them indiscriminately
lest they should become crowded with unworthy guests.
There is one of them between London and the West
Country, where you may arrive at 9 p.m. with your back
hair full of dust or your face plastered with mud, or your
overalls dripping with lubricant, and be sure of a firstclass six-course dinner as soon as you have scraped the
surface filth off your person. Down in Devon, too, I
96
know a village inn .where trout, ham and eggs, quince
jam and clotted cream form the menu, where village
worthies in the smoking room dispense Hodge’s
shrewdness with plenty of “oop aroun’ “and “you’m
mazed,” and where the bill for supper, bed and breakfast
was only 4s. 6d. in 1914.
Riding Companions.
Still, those lonesome evenings in strange pubs stick
in one’s gizzard on solitary tours. Was Kipling the cynic
who sang “ He travels the fastest who travels alone?” He
was certainly right where motorcyclists are concerned,
for I never yet discovered the pal of one’s dreams,
whose engine runs beat for beat with one’s own, whose
thirst always becomes imperious at the divine moment
and at no other, whose ideas of the right distance for a
day’s run fit mine, and who likes to stop for a pipe and a
stare at the view just where I consider men should. Nor,
if such a pal be discovered, can you trust either his
machine or his route-finding. Sooner or later, just when
your engine has insisted on being given the last notch of
throttle for ten miles, his back tyre will puncture. Or,
worse still, he will blithely shoot off ten miles down a
10. Inns
false turning, and it may take you half a day to recover
touch again. But there is this to be said of a tiresome
riding companion. He may indeed go fast when he
should go slow, He may miss his way ten times a day, or
encounter a wholly illegitimate series of troubles with his
machine. He may want to put up for the night just when
you have really begun to enjoy the road. But at least he is
there for company in the shabby pub or the gorgeous,
garish hotel when dinner is over, Methinks the cult of the
sidecar owes much to the shortcomings of English inns.
My thoughts always stray towards a possible sidecar
and a possible flapper when night sets in and finds me
fingering a month old “Tatler” in the lounge of some
gilded seaside palace or gazing despondently at the
yellowy-brown paint and paper in the fusty coffee room
of some Victorian Plantagenet Arms.
Hotel Accommodation at Trials.
In Six Days trials, accommodation for the night
assumes fresh terrors. In the old days such events were
carefully dated just before or just after the “season” in
any popu-lous places which we might be visiting, and
entries were so limited that little serious trouble arose. In
97
the first End-to-End trial of the A.C.C. beds were hard
to find in some of the Scottish towns, and some of us
slept in baths or on sofas, or even on billiard tables (I
have slept under one before now). Growing canny after
several experiences of the kind, I developed a habit of
booking rooms at each stopping place in advance - i.e.
about three months ahead. This is quite useless. You
receive a polite, typed acknowledgment from the manageress. On the great day you arrive foist at the hotel,
perhaps through being late in the official starting order
for the day, perhaps through troubles encountered en
route, perhaps through pressure of professional duties as
a journalist. The hotel is comparable to Bedlam. Two or
three hundred men are shrieking for food. The female
staff are in hysterics. The male staff have been suddenly
converted to Bolshevism. Nobody knows or cares
anything about the rooms which you ordered. No, there
are no other hotels in the place. No, they do not know of
anybody who has a bedroom to let. Finally, the wife of
the local scavenger takes compassion on you. She leases
you her spare room, and wakes you at 5 a.m. next morning with a pint mug of steaming tea, which is more than
any guest at the official hotel will get. You never know
10. Inns
your luck. Catering has indeed become one of the many!
drawbacks of these swollen events, and lunch at midday
is usually the scene of a far worse scrimmage than the
night stopping place. At night delays are comparatively
immaterial. At midday you have an hour for lunch. You
arrive on time, and cannily get your tanks replenished
there and then, aware of the free fight which will occur
for funnels after the meal. You then repair to the official
hotel some distance away, and cleanse yourself a lengthy
process after 200 miles in the dust of a big trial. By this
time half your precious hour is gone. You then enter a
huge saloon where two or three dress-coated foreigners
and as many frightened maids are trying to minister to
upwards of 200 hungry and impatient men : probably a
single “drinks waiter” is nearly distracted by the effort of
keeping tag on so many huge and varied thirsts. In
twenty minutes you have secured some lukewarm fish,
and have desperately ac-cepted somebody else’s “ small
lemon” in lieu of the “long shandy” which you had ordered, and which some-body strategically located nearer
to the door has already consumed. On perhaps one day
in the week you will fare much better than I have described: but there are six of these luncheons at six differ98
ent places : and no county contains six hotels which can
cater efficiently for a quick lunch for 200 or more uproarious men. If a pressman is too conscientious to “cut
corners” and content himself with covering half the
route, it pays him to carry sandwiches and wash them
down with liquor procured at unofficial stopping places.
10. Inns
machine, without adding unnecessarily to the tale of
articles which must be strapped into position. The second is that motorcycling is already a sufficiently greasy
habit, without importing the added task of scraping cold
bacon fat off tin plates at least once a day.
Picnicing by the Roadside.
In summer touring the wise motorcyclist employs no
midday hostess but Dame Nature herself. A motorcyclist
may find it inconvenient to carry a picnic-basket, but he
can wear a haversack. A quarter of an hour’s marketing say, in Tavistock-and finally a stoppage somewhere out
on the bosom of Dartmoor; pasties, strawberries, saffron buns, and a pint of cider; what could man ask better
?
There are men who go camping on motorcycles.
Person-ally I am not in love with camping. I must admit
that the average British inn is enough to drive a man to
any lengths. I have two main objections to motorcycle
camping. The first is that on tour one spends quite
enough time in seeing that things do not drop off the
99
10. Inns
(1) B. Beconnais (left) and S. F. Edge (right), before
starting for the one-hour tricycle record in 1902.
(2) Harry Martin, who started riding in 1901 and joined
Messrs. Bayliss and Thomas, makers of the Excelsior
machines, in 1902. Has since been responsible for the
reproduction of the Martin-Jap machines.
(3) Mr. Egerton starting for his successful Lands End to
John O’Groats run on a front driven Werner in 1901.
This was the first End-to-End run on a motor cycle.
100
11. Roads
XI. ROADS.
IN spite of the huge sums which are expended on
roads nowadays, they are certainly worse-probably
much worse-than they were twenty years ago. The impressions of oldtimers like myself cannot, of course, be
wholly trustworthy. The prehistoric motor demanded
one’s entire attention, and no surplus faculties were
available to criticize the road surface. Moreover, a youthful body is composed of fencing wire and indiarubber,
so that it sustains lightly tribulations which would be
torture to a forty-year-old. Again, the primitive machines
were decidedly slow, nor did they grant us such long
spells in the saddle that there was time to get cramped,
for we were perennially hopping off to effect some small
repair or to run alongside the labouring engine up some
mild hill. Nevertheless, when all these allowances have
been scrupulously made, I am convinced that the national road system has steadily deteriorated since igoo or
thereabouts. At that era I made nothing of certain physical feats which would appal me to-day, such as pedalling
a pushbike ioo miles in a day, riding a motor-bicycle with
rigid forks 20o miles between sunrise and sunset, or a
similarly springless motor tricycle 150 miles in the same
period. Today few main roads are smooth enough to
induce any pushcyclist to ride long distances on them
for pleasure; the motorcyclist maintains the hobby, but
he demands at the very least spring forks and a specially
suspended saddle, whilst there is a keen enthusiasm for
spring frames.
Revisiting Old Spots.
Recently, I made the experiment of revisiting the
roads over which the bulk of my motoring novitiate was
served, and, there is no doubt that they have deteriorated
abom-inably. Many of the more perilous corners have
indeed been shaved off. Roadscraping is certainly performed more frequently and more thoroughly : in 1919 I
lived on an important highway, which was not scraped
more than once a year, whilst the local-by-ways were
never freed from their primeval conglomeration of
churned up mire; when the mud got too deep, somebody
tipped a few loads of stone into the deeper holes, and
left the traffic to roll it in-a slow process. In igig I find
myself residing on a byelane so insignificant that it fails
to figure on most maps; but when the loose mud upon it
is more than an inch deep, I upbraid the local member of
101
11. Roads
the Council, and he blushes : if the steam roller does not
appear within a week of stone being tipped, we hold an
indignation meeting in the village reading-room, and our
member trembles for his seat. But this modern interest in
the roads is pure camouflage, for two principal reasons.
The first is that invention of the Evil One commonly
called a pothole. I have no recollections of potholes in
1900, and I doubt whether any existed at that era. At
present the history of all roads is alike. The roadmen
come along and tear them up. After a brief revel of red
flags and stonecarts and tar engines, we have a smooth
carpety surface to drive over for a few weeks. Gradually
the deceptive billiard table surface is corrugated into a
series of gentle wavings. As the troughs between the
waves deepen, the crust commences to break up, and
potholes form. The potholes enlarge in dimensions and
increase in number until the surveyor sends along a man
with a barrowful of stones and a bucket of tar who
converts each pothole into a hump. The crests of the
original waves are then converted into fresh potholes as
the wheels of the fast, heavy traffic wallop off the summit of the humps which now disguise the original potholes, By the time that the secondary potholes have been
well and truly excavated, the tarred stone plasters have
been scooped out of the primary potholes, and the road
is now all potholes. The red flags and the tar engines
return after a period which varies with the generosity of
the Council, the importunities and incomes of local
motorists, and the efficiency of the surveyor. But the
history of the road resembles that of the local toper, who
gets converted whenever a red-hot gospeller visits the
local chapel, but inevitably arrives at a last state which is
worse than his first. I am no road engineer, but the crying
need of our transport system is an inventor who shall
eliminate the pothole by redesigning our roads or by
redesigning the vehicles which pound roads into potholes. Of late years the evil grows more pronounced, as
the number of heavy lorries increases by leaps and
bounds. Wherever a motorbus service or heavy lorries
exist, the interval between a virgin billiard table surface
and the “devastated area” network of potholes is liable
to become a mere matter of weeks.
The second fatal factor is our penny wise and
pound foolish road policy. The stupidest bride hesitates
before she lays down a new Axminster carpet on
wormeaten flooring, dotted with protruding nailheads.
102
But over large areas of England we continue to trust the
weak, infirm road foundations laid down a century or
more ago to carry vehicles which were far lighter and far
slower than the traffic of today. On these flimsy foundations we deposit annually the most expensive carpets of
tarred stone. The foundation obviously quivers whenever a light car passes by; and the rigid carpet immediately cracks. One might as well lay cream crackers in a
hammock, run a garden roller along it, and be surprised
at seeing a shower of crumbs.
Scottish Potholes.
The pothole Par excellence is still to be found in
Scotland. A journalist who is reporting a big reliability
trial has to average as nearly as possible 40 miles an
hour. The competing motorcycles are travelling at 20
miles an hour between controls, and it is his business to
accompany them throughout and especially to watch
their behaviour on the test hills. By the time the last
machine has climbed a hill, the leading man is probably
2o or 30 miles ahead, and - the poor scribe must race
right through the crowd up to the front again, seek ing
material for his pen or camera. These duties entail lurid
11. Roads
corner work, and lurid corner work implies steering to a
very precise line round a sharp bend. As I dash up to
such a corner at speed, I cock my eye at its severity, and
lay out a projected steering line. At the critical moment
the wheels strike a pothole, the machine bumps clean off
the ground, and centrifugal force flings it outwards, a
foot off the projected line. Down she comes with a bang,
strikes more potholes, and repeats the sideways hop. By
the time she is level with the angle of the corner, it is
either impossible to get round at all, or else a convulsive
wrench of the steering must revise the direction while the
machine is in mid air. It is exciting work.
The Highland Cart Tracks of igoo.
Still this lurid cornerwork is preferable to our earlier
experiences in Scotland. There was a time when motors
were comparatively unknown and certainly unwanted
north of Perth. I have driven for a whole day in the
Highlands, and seen no car except the old high-beaked
Arrol-Johnston dogcarts with their huge back wheels,
natural wood-finished bodies, and solid tyres. In those
days many of the Highland roads were mere cart tracks,
and in early summer a wary eye had to be kept open for
103
11. Roads
the boulders which spring avalanches had rolled down
the mountain sides. Such repairs as were executed were
planned solely with an eye to farm cart traffic. Thus in
essaying the ascent of Cairn o’ Mount one might force a
single-geared motorcycle halfway up the climb by dint of
expert tuning, demon riding, and furious pedal assistance. Premature complacency might set in-I am up the
worst of it, and with a little luck and a lot of pedal-ling
may reach the summit in another quarter of an hour.
Just at the base of the steepest pitch an awesome
sight would salute us. Ten yards of the road for its full
width might have sunk into some secret bog. A massed
levy of the local farmers would have filled up the resultant hole with a knobbly mass of heather, dirt, boulders
and tree trunks. Subsequent traffic had scarred a couple
of deep, narrow ruts across the centre of the medley.
Nothing for it but to brace one’s body into the semblance of a steel girder construction, and try to hold the
front wheel true to the axis of a rut. Then a fearful thud
as the footrests stubbed themselves into the sides of the
rut, and the affrighted rider described a graceful parabola
over his handlebars. I have known it take three men to
carry a motor bicycle through such a road repair, whilst
“the single-geared machine proved absolutely unstartable
on the long, steep pitch just beyond the ruts.
Roads and Trials Rules.
Those glories have now departed. Extreme discomfort is the worst feature of those roads over which a man
must travel ; and the ancient ardours of grappling with
the almost unrideable are reserved for the freak going
which club secretaries love to provide for reliability
trials. Even these excitements tend to become stale if one
is riding a first-class machine. In ig1g, for example, I
carried out my press duties on a four-speeded motor
bicycle which could climb any hill road on its second
gear. In the numerous trials of the season the various
secretaries aimed at dismounting us in two principal
ways (a dismount, of course, spoilt one’s prospects of
earning a gold medal). The first, and perhaps the wiliest,
consisted of setting us to traverse miles of lanes sufficiently dangerous to reduce our speed to a.figure below
the average demanded by the rules. Just when we began
to grow really anxious about timekeeping, we should be
presented with a tempt-ing stretch of road, perfectly
straight and mildly down-hill. We should naturally bang
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11. Roads
our throttles open, and “blind.” Halfway down this
stretch a perfectly unos-tentatious lane would streak
sharply backwards by means of a Vee bend, and the
directing arrow would be neatly secreted out of sight up
the Vee. To such measly shifts are stingy committees
reduced to wring stoppages out of a modern machine.
Alternatively, club secretaries love the following combination of horrors; a watersplash (as deep as may be); an
S bend on a 6 ft. road, smeared with wet mud, deeply
rutted, and sprinkled with large stones, the whole ascending as stiffly as may be - if at a grade of 1 in 3, so
much the better. The watersplash sets all the belts slipping, and with any luck may dowse a few sparking plugs
and magnetos; the fierce gradient will tempt all the riders
to drive rather too fast; the grease and the stones will
cause front wheels to develop uncontrollable aberrations;
and the narrowness of the lane creates good hopes of a
regular jam, which may be cunningly augmented by
scattering a few sidecars amongst the motor bicycles.
The most hardened rider is doomed to a few anxious
seconds when he strikes such an impasse as the above.
Skids.
Sideslip has practically ceased to be alarming, for
the lowbuilt modern machine is beautifully balanced, and
with a corrugated tread on each wheel will seldom do
more than skate a trifle. Nevertheless there area few parts
of the country where no man may defy the conditions.
Porlock after heavy rain is still something. of a lottery. A
cowboy on an unbroken broncho is not more helpless
than a crack rider on a first-class machine may be upon
Porlock under suitable road conditions. A famous
rough-rider, who was new to the peculiar brand of grease
which occurs in that corner of Somerset, once tried to
ascend the hill in the middle of a big trial. He came up to
the straight piece below the S bend, surveying with a
shocked surprise his fellow-riders who were slithering
about in the most ridiculous fashion. His own machine
registered a beautiful line right up the road centre, and
the calm disdain of his glance positively blistered the
fallen warriors who strewed the roadside. Suddenly his
expression changed to one of abject terror as his machine quietly turned off at right-angles, endeavoured to
climb a moorland bank with a grade of i in a, and finally
tumbled backwards on top of him.
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11. Roads
Road Reconstruction Long Overdue.
Great transformations in our roadways seem practically inevitable. It is notorious that existing highways are
grossly unsuited to the traffic which they have to bear, a
traffic which annually increases in weight and speed.
Radical reconstruction of all the leading roads is long
overdue, whether reinforced concrete or steel be
adopted. The expenses of motoring will be vastly curtailed as soon as smooth surfaces are provided. Quite
apart from the damage due to violent and incessant
vibration, the tyre bill is a principal item in motoring
expenditure whether for pleasurable or commercial
purposes. Tyres are inces-santly off the ground, and the
impact of return to the road administers frightful blows
to them, and grinds rubber off their treads. Good roads
may reduce the cost of motor transport by at least 25
per cent., and will pay for them-selves in a few years.
Alterations in another direction are also foreshadowed. The present high wages do not permit every
artisan to own a cheap motor vehicle for the simple
reason that the price of motors is artificially and accidentally inflated to absurd figures. When this inflation
ceases, prices will fall, and the number of cars and
cycles on the road will vastly exceed all past records.
Our roads are at present unsafe for any large increase in
the traffic. They will have to be widened and straightened. Only recently I was driving down towards a certain
bridge set rather askew against a first-class road. Down
the slope on the far side two cars were racing alongside
towards the bridge. If I had not known this danger spot
of old, I should have held on, and a tremendous smash
would have resulted. As it was, I stopped, and the two
cars barely cleared the bridge, one of them bashing in a
wing as it skidded over. The country abounds with
similar danger points, which only fail to produce an
annual crop of casualties because our motor traffic is
still comparatively thin.
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XII. ACCIDENTS.
IT says much for the safety of the motorcycle that
in twenty years’ driving with an approximate mileage of
2oo,ooo I have never hurt either myself or anybody else
at all seriously. If there is a little cherub who sits up aloft
and watches over poor Jack, there must certainly be a
twin seraph who protects motorcyclists. The
motor-cycle is unquestionably a lethal projectile, for its
weight averages perhaps 3 cwt. and many examples are
capable of express train speeds. The majority of riders
are young, with the recklessness which belongs to their
years. We all serve a somewhat protracted novitiate, and
veterans like myself were apprentices in the days of
universal ignorance, when machines were extremely
badly made. British roads were not constructed for high
speed traffic and neither the A.A. nor the Road Board
has succeeded in eliminating all their perilousness. Nevertheless, despite all these potential elements of danger,
serious accidents are quite exceptional.
A Collision on Sutton Bank.
If I have encountered few personal accidents, I have
witnessed many, and it is the humorous aspects which
12. Accidents
most easily survive in the memory. No motorcycling
accident can compete in humour with the spectacle of
the bottom falling out of an ancient four-wheeled cab
whilst fares are inside ; but a few incidents of the road
can still revive imperishable smiles. One of the most
comic occurred on Sutton Bank. We arrived at that
fearsome acclivity on a 9 h.p. tricar-one of the few vehicles of that era which could climb the Trough with ease
and certainty. Just below the Trough was a small car
which could neither advance forwards nor let itself down
backwards under brake control. The wise owner had
therefore swung his steering across the road, and was
dismally employing the bank to chock his back wheels.
We stopped, and proffered assistance, but his -engine
was so feeble that two pushers could not get the car
over the Trough. Presently a very splendid car indeed
hove in sight, sliding cautiously down the hill: it had a
brand new landaulette body, picked out in vertical stripes
of light and dark blue, and the coachwork alone had
probably cost £750. We hailed its occupants. It pulled
up just below the rusty, shabby little voiturette, and two
of the men came to our aid. With four stalwart pushers
available, we got the voiturette well out into the road, and
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12. Accidents
about halfway up the Trough. At this point the pushers
became exhausted, and the engine finally conked out.
The voiturette slid backwards down the hill, gather-ing
speed on the grade of i in A and presently hit the back
panel of the lordly landaulet with a fearful wump, reducing it to splintered white matchwood, and provoking
shrieks from the be-diamonded ladies inside. A tremendous fracas ensued, during which we sneaked quietly off
on our tricar.
right round, and toppled gently over into a shallow ravine
on the left of the road, tipping out the proud flappers in a
smother of frills and squeaks. Nobody was hurt, and we
vastly enjoyed helping an improvised gang of men to
lever the damaged monster back on to the road again,
whilst the flappers sat on wet stones and sulked.
“Getting My Own Back.”
Towards the end of a certain 1,000 miles trial, I
found myself the victim of a good deal of chaff. The
The Discomfited Flappers.
rules said nothing about the condition in which machines
On another occasion two of us had halted in sheer
finished, gold medals being awarded if one completed
despair on a slight rise in the Highlands. The roads were the distance on time. This was just as well, as my madrying up after a week’s rain, and the surface was so
chine was held together by copper wire and string, exdisgustingly slippery that we simply could not keep our
cept for sundry parts of minor importance which were
topheavy machines upright. We sat on our saddles, half
tied round my neck. My principal persecutor was a rival
laughing and half cursing, because we ached all over
on a cyclecar : his machine had been cannily driven and
after numerous falls, and looked so forlorn in our
polished with Brasso whenever a chance occurred, so
mud-smeared overalls. Suddenly there was an imperious that it looked as if it had just come out of a crate. After
toot, and a tremendous car swept past us, whilst the
the finish, we all made tracks for the station. I begged a
aristocratic flappers in the tonneau bestowed contemptu- lift on a car, as my machine was mechanically incapable
ous glances on a pair of vulgar, dirty motorcyclists. The of travelling another mile, though it had just earned a
car sailed some thirty yards up the hill, skidded suddenly gold medal. The car spun down the road just behind the
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12. Accidents
spotless cycle-car. Suddenly to my infinite glee I noticed
that the back wheels of the cycle-car were inclining
inwards at the top. In a yard or two the driver seemed to
be worried about something, and peered anxiously
downwards under his armpit. Ten yards more, and his
axle snapped asunder, both wheels flattening out on the
road. He kept on advertising his gold medal in the press
for a full year, and whenever he met me I was able to get
my own back.
and suddenly I flushed a colt which had got out of its
field. I have never been so badly frightened in my life - to
have a horse kicking and rearing within a yard or two in
the dark is not aa pleasant experience. Luckily he missed
me, and galloped off in the opposite direction, or I
should never have dared to go any further.
Even a sideslip can be fraught with humour. A
crowd of us were massed by the roadside, waiting for
the start of a trial, when a rider swanked up on a
brandnew 4-cylinder bicycle, which was then a novelty.
Riding on a Flock of Sheep.
He pretended to be unconscious of our admiration, but
One of my very earliest rides was in the front seat of every line in his body was eloquent of pride and cona somewhat gigantic tricar known as an Eagle tandem, of tempt. He was halfway down the serried ranks of enviwhich I recall little beyond the fact that it had an 8 h.p.
ous men when his mount sideslipped so suddenly it
water-cooled single-cylinder engine and was very comabsolutely lay down underneath him. The crash of the
fortable. Darkness came on, and I fell asleep, to wake in machine and the very bad word with which he relieved
sheer terror, as the lamps were out, and the tricar was
his feelings reached our ears simultaneously, and a great
longitudinally stationary, but heaving restlessly up and
shout of Homeric laughter arose. Not long after a similar
down. “Wherever are we? “ I yelled. My imperturbable
machine was showing off before a similar crowd, when
driver remarked coolly, “ I think we must be on top of a either the engine or the drive seized without warning. The
flock of sheep.” And we were!
tail of the machine swung round broadside, and the rider
It was along the very same road that I was compitched ignomin-iously into the road. Not without reason
pelled to drive a lampless motor bicycle on a dark night, did the Greeks believe in Nemesis.
109
One of the most comic spectacles I ever beheld
greeted me without warning after rounding a bend in the
road. There lay a Ford car upside down at an angle
across the fairway. In those days the belly of a Ford car
was con-structed of unpainted tin, and soon became
stained by oil leakages. The car somehow presented an
extraor-dinarily indecent appearance as it lay there with
its futile wheels pointing skywards. Unfortunately tragedy developed when I got closer, for there was blood
oozing from beneath the overturned vehicle.
A Daring Performance.
One of the big motorcycle trials provided much
comic relief with another Ford car, in which some of the
officials were travelling. Towards the close of one day’s
run the car ran over a dog, which had results undreamt
of by the occupants. They reached the official garage
without incident, and put the car up for the night. This
vast garage was a disused drill hall, and instead of turning on the reverse next morning to get the car out, the
driver steered forwards, intending to make a wide sweep
and turn without using the reverse. The harder he steered
to the left, the more obstinately the car went to the right.
12. Accidents
He did not possess enough presence of mind to stop his
engine and examine the damaged steering gear, but stared
solemnly and incredulously at his wayward front wheels,
and then back at the steering wheel which he was tugging
in the opposite direction. Meanwhile his three passengers
half-rose in their seats, and gazed in breathless
astonish-ment. We patched up the steering for them, but
the day’s route was precipitous and full of corners; we
made a point of stopping to watch the faces of those
four men ‘when their car approached a really dangerous
corner. But the lightheartedness of motorcyclists is
proverbial. The Ford car was then a complete noveltyprobably there were not more than half a dozen in the
country. Twenty-four hours later the quartette accepted a
heavy bet that their Ford could do 6o m.p.h. Finding it
could only just touch 40 m.p.h. on the flat, they drove it
all out down a steep hill, and won their bet with the light
chassis bouncing high into the air and touching the road
once every ten yards or so. Considering that a collie had
.knocked its main steering arm cockeyed two days
before, ‘this was rather a daring performance.
110
Accidents in the Island.
In the Isle of Man the word “accident” has sadder
connotations. Anybody who knows the Manx racing
course and has driven fast cars or cycles round it will
marvel that the catalogue of fatalities is so small. The
corners are acute, the highways rough, the mountain
road little more than a pair of ruts scarred across the
moor, and the pace demanded for victory is nowadays
pared down to such a fine point that success is chiefly a
matter of who dares take the greatest risks at corners.
Moreover, the Manx roads are dangerously greasy when
they are drying after a shower, and mist is by no means
unknown on Snaefell. Nevertheless there are remarkably
few accidents in the Island, and the majority have occurred to quite inexperienced men. Brooklands has an
astonishingly clean record in this respect, considering
that a deflated tyre during a race creates frightful steering
difficulties at very brief notice, and that if a man goes
over on a wide cement track, the impact of the fall is
bound to be tremendous. Few Brooklands habitues will
easily forget the ill-starred race for a ioo-mile trophy a
few years ago. Newton on a Napier car decided that the
canniest plan was to strike a medium speed of say 8o
12. Accidents
m.p.h. and cover the distance without a tyre stop. Other
drivers less prudently opened out their powerful engines
to the maxi-mum, and wore down their tyres with astounding rapidity. After a few miles they would pull in at
the repair bays, and the scrapped covers were so hot
that they charred the planking of the bays. Presently the
inevitable occurred, and a fast car burst its front tyres at
speed. The unwieldy monster turned turtle on the banking, tossed its occupants out to death, rolled down into
the fencing, and caught fire.
Sidecar Smashes.
Sidecars have been responsible for some nasty
crashes, ‘especially when big engines were first fitted to
combinations without suitable strengthening of the chassis. It is re-corded that an agile driver was scrapping
along on such an outfit when his side wheel came off,
and purled off down the road ahead of him. He dexterously tilted the machine to balance on the two bicycle
wheels, and brought it safely to rest. On the other hand I
have seen a sidecar wheel come off just ahead of me,
and cause the machine to slew right round and crash into
a fence.
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12. Accidents
Pillion riding is also prone to lead to accident, if the
devotees are reckless or careless, but its cheapness and
the fact that it is not good for man to be alone result in
its survival. One day I was riding hard to catch a car
which had been bothering me with its dust, when a powerful twin roared past me, carrying a second man on the
carrier. They caught and passed the car, and immediately
their back tyre burst. Down they went in the centre of the
road : both the car and myself had bare room to steer
out past them, and avoid adding to the unpleasant injuries which they had already received.
Bad Cornering and Road Hogging.
A sensible driver soon learns to identify two special
risks in roadwork from which no caution can absolutely
protect him. One arises from the presence of idiots on
the road, the other from the presence of cattle. Many
motorists habitually corner in the most disgraceful fashion. Round blind corners they take it for granted that
they will find the road untenanted. They “ cut “ every
sharp corner. They sail cheerily across blind road junctions as if they enjoyed an assured right of way. I have
heard one idiot of some eminence remark that he is
perfectly safe in “ blinding “ across road junctions,
because there cannot be more than three other fools with
similar habits in the country, arid it is long odds against
two of the quartette arriving at the same cross roads
simultaneously. It would be an excellent thing if the
police employed a few traffic experts with large powers
to educate and punish the offenders against road sense
and road manners, ‘instead of persecuting people who
slightly exceed an absurd speed limit in a safe locality.
Night Driving.
Cattle are still a constant source of-danger at night.
On a white dry road sheep are all but invisible, and cattle
are equally difficult to see on a road which has been
dark-ened by rain. A tired or shortsighted rider may
easily charge a herd, and it is hardly surprising that motorists use lamps of a dazzling brightness when so many
road obstacles are permitted to dispense with warning
signals of any kind. More than once I have been saved
from a smash by seeing the reflection of my lamps in the
eyes of a herd of cattle, or by noticing that the black or
white road ahead contained some suggestion of motion
in its colour. It is easy to argue that a careful driver
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12. Accidents
should be able to sight any obstacle with lamps of medium power. This is probably true; but a chauffeur who
has been driving a doctor about all day, or a lorry driver
employed on night work are quite likely to suffer from a
moment’s carelessness. Given modern lamps and modern road law, prolonged nightdriving still demands the
most concentrated attention.
A Close Shave.
Oddly enough, the narrowest squeak in my history
was due to a cow in broad daylight. I was attempting to
break the End-to-End record, and was keeping a fine
machine at its maximum speed along a broad and deserted road. When I say “deserted,” there was the solitary cow in view, grazing by the roadside a few hundred
yards ahead ; but experience teaches one to size up the
probable character of domestic animals, and the hinder
end of this animal appeared quite sedate. So it proved,
but the cow was tethered by a long chain to a stake on
the opposite side of the road. I crossed the slack chain at
some 60 miles an hour, and if Daisy had grown nervous
and kicked up her heels ten seconds earlier, I might not
have lived to pen this page. Still, one never knows.
On the same ride I drove full tilt into a few sheep,
huddled asleep on a Scottish road in the moonlight.
Seeing that the road was downhill, and that the engine
was all out at the time, the speed probably approached
70 m.p.h. Mercifully I pitched clear of the road on some
heather and beyond knocking all the wind out of my
body was not appreciably the worse for a very heavy
fall. By contrast I have known a rider break his leg in
sideslipping at 8 miles an hour, probably because he had
time to stiffen his limbs in the effort to save himself.
Tyre Bursts.
When all is said and done, tyres are the speedman’s
worst hoodoo. The gradual deflation of a tyre at touring
speeds is such a common occurrence that few men
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12. Accidents
realise what a sudden deflation at racing speed can mean.
One instant. you are travelling like a shell from a gun,
revelling in the pleasant roar of the engine and the rush of
wind past your cheeks, rejoicing in the obedience of the
metal steed beneath you. The next instant she is all over
the road, and you are fighting like a tiger to regain partial
mastery of a vindictive rebel which is thirsting for your
blood. In the Manx races I have breathlessly watched
such a duel maintained for 200 yards down the mountain
road, and end in the death of the rider. None ‘but an
expert should ever let a motorcycle attain its maximum
speed on road or track.
good machines are immune from it, though I have taken
one or two bad tosses from this cause.
Side Slipping.
Sideslip was a constant terror to skilled riders until
ten years ago. Single-geared machines were necessarily
driven rather fast in hilly country, as hills could only be
climbed if the speed was kept high. A topheavy machine
driven rather fast round a greasy corner was naturally
prone to skid. In certain parts, of England, notably
Derbyshire and South Devon, the soil renders the grease
peculiarly treacherous, and on a primitive type of maSome of our machines occasionally display a curichine riders would suffer so many tumbles that their
ous phenomenon, of which there is a simple mechanical nerves would collapse, and they would be literally afraid
explanation, though comparatively few designers under- to re-mount. The lowbuilt modern machines can be
stand it. A machine will answer its steering very obedidriven on almost any surface without anxiety. Nowadays
ently until a really high speed is attained, say 50 m.p.h. or I seldom take the risk of a sideslip into calculation exmore. The front wheel may then begin to oscillate viocept in one or two counties which abound in treacherous
lently, somewhat after the fashion of a terrier shaking a
oolite surfaced roads or in London traffic where the
rat. No effort will steady it, and slowing down often
combination of grease, frequent applications of the
makes the oscillations of the wheel even more probrakes, and the proximity of motorbuses is enough to
nounced. This “speedman’s wobble,” as it is often
make anybody careful.
called, has brought many a man over. Fortunately most
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12. Accidents
(1) T. H. Tessier : started motor cycling 1899, rode in
the first English motor cycle race at Brighton 1901,
joined the Bat Company in 1903 and is still associated with them. He is shown riding on the Crystal
Palace track on a 1903 Bat.
(2) Another early Bat rider, George A. Barnes, who
started racing in 1902 and joined the Bat Company
in 1903.
(3) Ernest H. Amott on the 1903-racing Werner. Mr.
Arnott rode in many races at home and abroad, and
was captain of the Motor Cycling Club in 1903.
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13. Lamps
XIII. LAMPS.
I have alluded elsewhere to the terrors of a night ride
in the early days of motorcycling. They were of a twofold character. In the first place the machine itself could
absolutely be trusted to give trouble. In the second place
the lamp could not be trusted to give light whilst the
machine was being repaired. In those days our acetylene
lamps were very similar to those still used on pushbikes,
though they were not so well made : their general flimsiness can be guessed from the fact that for a whole season (possibly 1901) I preferred to use a Lucas pushbike
“ King of the Road “ oil lamp with a 1 in. wick : its light
was wholly inadequate for motor-cycling purposes, but
the lamp was so well made that it generally hung together
for a run. By contrast the typical acetylene lamp of that
era began by smashing the springs of its hinged spring
back. The hinge was then blocked up horizontally with a
bit of wood, after which the outraged bracket snapped.
On more than one occasion I have finished a ride holding the lamp in my right hand and steering with the left
hand, occasionally riding hands off for a fraction of a
minute while the steering hand was removed from the bar
to make lightning dabs at the control levers. What this
meant with a topheavy, single-geared machine of less
than 2 h.p. on greasy roads can better be imagined than
described.
The Prehistoric Gas Lamps.
The primitive acetylene lamps naturally dissolved
into their component parts soon after the inevitable
fracture of the spring hinge had occurred. Glass, reflector, burner - holder - everything would come adrift and
drop off in the road. The most insidious trick of all was
that the needle control of the watervalve would vibrate
open, and when night came on, the charge of carbide
would prove to be sodden and useless. Pushcyclists
fought rather shy of carbide lamps in those days, and
motorcyclists were very rare birds indeed; consequently
it was difficult to purchase supplies of any sort along the
road. After a few experiences of the kind I made it a rule
to carry two lamps and not less than 2 lb. of carbide : I
can even recall constructing a substantial wooden box to
fit my carrier and contain the spare lamp; indeed I once
received half a guinea from a technical journal for an
article dealing with this invaluable tip. The one merit of
the early lamps was that they were cheap. I forget what
116
the “tumble-to-bits “ pattern used to cost; but I paid no
more than 8s. 6d. for the first serviceable gaslamp I ever
owned, which was a German article known as the
Schmidt. It was substantially constructed, devoid of
springs, and fitted on a rigid two-prong bracket which
bolted round the steering head. Not long after this the
Lucas people brought out a beautifully finished article,
which was tolerably reliable, though its lightgiving powers would be considered contemptible in these days.
Introduction of Separate Generators.
The genesis of the £3 1,000ft.-beam lamps with
separate-generators was due to the twenty-four reliability
trials organised by various clubs, and especially by the
M.C.C. In my first London-Edinburgh ride I relied on a
small lamp with a 3-inch reflector fed with gas by three
tiny generators no larger than claret tumblers, clipped to
various parts of the machine. When illuminated
number-plates became compulsory after dark, a fresh
problem was imported. For one thing, a feeble light by
which the long-enduring riders of that epoch might be
content to travel, did not illuminate the number sufficiently to please the police ; or if the lamp happened to
13. Lamps
burn properly, the cowl which deflected the rays down
on to the number, would fall off, and precarious erections of paper and string had to be substituted.
Riding in Company.
Whenever possible, we preferred to perform our
night ourneys in company. On one occasion three of us,
greatly daring, essayed a 100-mile trip in the dark. We
car-ried two spare tins of carbide and plenty of burners.
For an hour or so everything went very merrily indeed.
Then one of the party commenced an exasperating series
of tyre troubles, and we used most of our carbide in
illuminating the subsequent repairs. When his tyre was at
last passed as sound, there was little carbide remaining.
Our route lay over a lonely moor, and as the police were
long since in bed, we determined that only one lamp
should fill the bill. Jones, who was supposed to know
the route, was appointed leader, whilst the other man and
I steered by the glow from his lamp. Presently the water
chamber of Jones’ lamp ran dry, and water is hard to
come by on hard ground at midsummer. Ingenuity surmounted this difficulty, and the run proceeded. As we
descended from the moor, we entered very curly lanes. I
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13. Lamps
was rearguard, and Jones was generally two corners,
ahead of me, so it was not long before I took the ditch
and heard the other two engines sounding more and
more faintly in the depths of the inky gloom ahead. I
went to sleep till dawn. Some hours later, as I scorched
along, in the dim sunrise I encountered No. 2 fast asleep
beside his machine on a grassy bank. He had shared my
fate, Jones having disappeared round a V bend, leaving
him to cannon into a wall in the pitchy darkness.
carbide in his lamp, whilst I and the other man groped
agonizedly through the dark lanes, rejoicing when we
sighted the yellow blob of Jones’ lamplight on the road.
Presently we sighted lamps in cottage windows, and at
last the joyful gleam from the open doors of a hostelry.
Horrors! Right outside the door stood the hideous form
of the village policeman; and we were in a horsey area
where motorists were extremely unpopular and treated
with the utmost rigour of the law. As Jones burbled up to
the inn, Robinson and I dropped our feet and switched
off. We dared not enter the village, and we were so cold
Lamp Tragedies.
The same trio shared several long night rides, usually and so hungry. We stood there shivering and aching in
the dark, wondering whether Jones would evolve a suitwith rather better success, but not without occasional
able stunt. Jones stopped his engine, and appeared to be
tragedies. On another occasion and in much colder
chatting pleasantly with Robert in the lamplight. Presently
weather Jones’ machine gave us frantic trouble on a
the ineffable traitor went inside the inn, and after an
lonesome road just as night came on. Four hours later
we got it running satisfactorily. We were very cold, very interminable interval reappeared wiping his lips. It was
cross, very hungry, and our carbide as usual was almost more than flesh and blood could stand. Robinson and I
resolved to face the music and compel Jones to pool the
exhausted. Once more we appointed Jones as
resultant fines. Just as we prepared to ride in, Jones
routefinder : he knew of a cosy little inn in a village not
far away, and we promised ourselves ham and eggs and began to wrestle with his machine. We paused. Jones
appeared to be finding his machine unstartable. He apa warm bed, deferring the completion of our run till the
morrow. Jones went ahead with our precious reserve of pealed to Robert. Robert bent down and helped to push.
118
13. Lamps
The pair disappeared round the corner. Stealthily
Robinson and I slipped off our belts, and wheeled our
machines rapidly into the yard of the inn. In half an hour
all three of us were seated at a steaming meal, and poor
innocent Robert had clearly failed to distinguish the
blended noise of three engines at our first approach, for
we escaped without a summons.
Taking Risks.
Later on, when motorcycles became very numerous,
it was possible to take liberties with the law, for the
identification of offenders was not so easy. For example,
I once saw a clump of seven motor-bicycles rip through
a very large and dignified city in the small hours at perhaps 40 m.p.h. with but three lamps between them. This
clump consisted of a guide, an End-to-End record
breaker, and five “followers.” Doubtless the police
phoned along the road to have them stopped, but as they
had planned a devious route to avoid tramlines they were
never caught.
On one occasion lamp troubles seemed to have
made us accessories to a minor tragedy. Two of us were
nearing the fag end of a very long drive on a powerful
tricar - which had electric lamps supplied from accumulators which were not kept charged by a dynamo. Thirty
miles from our destination and nine miles from a town,
this lighting system misbehaved after the fashion of its
kind. The batteries suddenly reached the exhaustion
point, and the bulbs could produce no more than a dull
red glow, suggestive of a match which is just smouldering out. We knew every inch of the road, which was
lonely, and decided we would risk driving on in the dark.
Meanwhile the batteries would recover a trifle, and with
luck they might give enough light for the safe passage of
the one small town which intervened between us and
home. Driving slowly on bottom gear, it was possible to
feel the camber of the road, and to keep well on its
centre. All went well until we were dropping down a
curving slope towards a Vee road junction. Just as we
neared the Vee, we heard the noise of a thousand tomato
tins being dragged along the road in a springless cart.
This noise was unmistakable to the practised rider of
those days - it implied that a certain infamous cyclecar
was approach-ing at speed. As I hastily switched on the
faded lights, five bright lamps rounded the corner just
below us, and the cycle-car ran full tilt on to the Vee
119
13. Lamps
tongue of turf at the road junction, and capsized with a
horrific noise on to the lower road. We naturally supposed that the sudden apparition of our lamps on a
previously vacant road had disconcerted the unknown
driver; anticipating serious trouble we placed ourselves
in postures of self-defence before going to his aid. Not a
bit of it. My lamps, such as they were, had lit up immediately before he rounded the corner, and his smash was
due to pure carelessness. But what a wreck! His front
wheels were lying perfectly flat on the road, still precariously united by their axle; and as we picked his bus up,
most of the spokes dropped tinkling on to the ground.
lent, with the exception of the battery; I should not credit
this with more than ten minutes’ working life in the
flash-lamp beloved of schoolboys. However, as I was
careful to charge the wretched thing up to the neck by
doing five hours daylight work for every hour of night
work, it never let me down very seriously. A few months
later I was fool enough to sell the outfit to my best
friend. War broke out, and he found himself in camp.
After a long day with awkward recruits he would jump
into the saddle and set off hotfoot for the neighbouring
town, where there was a good hotel and eke a small
music-hall with a stage door. To judge from his eloquent
epistles the lighting set gave a beam about two miles long
for five minutes; the second chapter consisted of a dull
Early Dynamo Outfits.
red glow, lasting about ten seconds; after which there
By about 1910 lamp troubles had become temporarily extinct, but they revived with a rush when the first succeeded a thick darkness, which might be felt. Leave
was scarce in those days, so I felt no immediate dread,
electric installations for motor-bicycles were produced.
and forwarded by post sage advice about seeing that the
Experience had made me fairly wary where novelties
dynamo drive did not slip (in sober fact, it slipped incurwere concerned, and I gave these contraptions a wide
ably). As the date of his first leave approached I thought
berth at their first appearance. Still I was not proof
against the coaxings of one inventor, who presented me it well to scrounge a Mills bomb or two in readi-ness for
free, gratis, and all for nothing, with a handsome dynamo his avenging visit. But fate was kind. He kept his machine in the guardroom; and one night when he was
installation for one of my machines. The set was excel120
13. Lamps
orderly dog, he caught the guard stretched luxur-iously
on the guardroom floor, reading “John Bull” by the
bright rays of his headlamp. Being well aware that
headlamps should not be lit except when the engine is
driving the dynamo, he administered stern discipline
upon the guard, and apologised to me.
Modern Equipment.
At the time of writing, the modern rider can pick and
choose between three excellent types of lighting. The
acetylene generator sets of today are superbly constructed. It is possible to buy cylinders of dissolved
acetylene, which are sometimes awkward to carry, but
give no trouble. Finally, the electric dynamo outfit is now
being produced in various miniature patterns, some of
which are suited even for use on lightweight machines.
121
14. Pleasures of Motorcycling
XIV. THE PLEASURES OF MOTORCYCLING.
WHEN I was twelve years old, my father asked me
what I should like to be. I replied,
“An engine driver or a missionary.” Most boys are
half-mechanic, half-idealist. The former element commonly triumphs, as it did in my case, and is very largely
responsible for the existence of the motor industry. We
begin by “repairing” a toy watch with the aid of a hairpin
and a pat of butter. We graduate by constructing a hutch
for our tame rabbits. In the wealthy days of bachelorhood we buy a bicycle, take the bearings to pieces, and
lose all the balls. Later on, if fortune prospers, we purchase a motor bicycle. It may be a good machine and
run well, as is the rule nowadays. It may be a bad machine, and seldom capable of running at all, as was the
general experience when I served my novitiate. The
alternative is unimportant. The right to tinker with it at
our own sweet will is one of the principal appeals which
the purchase makes; the man who buys a Rolls-Royce
and employs a skilled chauffeur to drive and maintain it
is psychologically an octogenarian, even though he figure
in the press as one of Lloyd George’s boy statesmen.
The pukka motorcyclist is often quite as happy in his
garage on a wet December evening with a motor-bicycle
which won’t go, as he is on the open road in August
with a beauteous flapper on the carrier.
Not less important is the element of danger in the
sport. The danger is normally of the milk-and-water
pattern. Have not I covered a six-figure mileage, much of
it on weird and perilous mounts, without ever injuring
myself or anybody else at all seriously? A motorcyclist
tumbles like a baby or a drunken man. If he is thrown he
is thrown like greased lightning. There is no time to
stiffen the muscles, and create the resistance which leads
to a bad fracture on impact. I have gone over my handlebars at 70 miles an hour, fallen like a sack of flour, and
escaped with a few aches and bruises. Nevertheless, the
danger is there. The sideslip which is a mere occasion
for oaths and laughter on the Grampian road would
imply being juggernauted by a motorbus in the Strand.
More-over, our quick wits, swift steering, ready brakes,
and narrow dimensions often wriggle us out of the
clutches of imminent death. This spice of danger is
extremely attractive to the young in a world which is full
of grand-mothers, policemen and sanitary inspectors.
The Victorian adolescent spent the day at his desk, and
122
devoured “Westward Ho” or “Ivanhoe” in an armchair at
night. The youngsters of today correct the monotonous
conven-tions of business hours by scatterbrained driving
at week ends on machines which are unquestionably full
of lethal possibilities.
the motorcycle meets his need. The juggernauts of the
road-electric tram, gay taxicab, rumbling motor lorry-and
the curt point policeman play much the same role in his
life which the mammoth and the ape assumed towards
his forgotten ancestors. In both cases safety depends on
personal effort. Perhaps the greasy tramline, and the rain
trickling under his collar, and the numbed fingers on the
The Nomadic Spirit.
The masculine character contains other personalities steel levers tickle his manhood just as his remote grandfather was not wholly oppressed by the precarious perch
besides the dormant mechanic and the potential adventurer. If the historians are right, our forefathers were once in the treetops and the bite of the winter wind on his bare
and hairy chest.
nomadic. The inherited instinct dies hard. Man is still
compelled to travel, and if his compulsory journeys are
The Accommodating Sidecar.
limited in range and character, he will yearn to extend
them. The discomforts of other methods of travel and
Thus far none but the more strenuous aspects of
the genuine wanderlust combine to endow the motormotorcycling have been visualized. Contrast is the spice
cycle with a fresh appeal. Jones lives in a villa at
of life, and motorcycling proffers joys which appeal to
Willesden, and must go to the City daily. Bus, tram, tube the emasculated. Many of us - perhaps most of us - are
and train will conduct him thither punctually, cheaply,
fair-weather devotees at the shrine. A summer day, a
and safely. Not so did his forefathers travel when winter Devon landscape, a slim young thing in a jumper, and a
or famine urged them towards pastures new. Furtively
picnic basket furnished with saffron cake and clotted
they crept through the forests, warily watching for the
cream - these also figure in our yearly programme. There
sabre-toothed tiger. The deeps of Jones’ nature yearn to is no more popular motor vehicle than a sidecar - every
recreate lost traditions; and so far as civilization permits, young Englishman would buy one tomorrow if he could
123
afford it. “Never the time and the place and the loved
one together,” sang Browning; but Browning was not a
motorcyclist. The streets are a cold courting ground.
People will walk into the drawing-room without knocking. That ass Brown pays impertinent attention to
Miranda at the tennis club. An hour in the sidecar, a
mossy bank facing the June sunset - what could youth
(male or female) demand more? It is better to live in 1920
and own an 8 h.p. sidecar outfit than to have been the
hero of the jousts under Edward III.
Engineers prate about the “flexibility” of the modern
motor. Its flexibility is surely spiritual as well as
tech-nical. The years pass, and you no longer wish to sit
in the gloaming and press Eve’s fingers. You are now
head of a considerable business, and the day’s worries
persist in keeping your brain on the bubble when the
evening meal is over. Some form of anaesthetic is necessary. Golf for most of us is merely a counter-irritant. It
has its golden days, when we can picture Vardon’s dread
of being drawn against us in the Open Championship;
but normally we are conscious of suppressed groans in
the waiting crowd when we top our drive off the first tee.
Recreation Combined with Health.
The motorcycle never fails to blow the cobwebs out
of a stuffy brain. An hour in the saddle, and the week’s
work simply ceases to exist, whilst the entire body is
oxygenated more entirely than a week at Brighton could
do it. As a healthy distraction for busy men past their
first youth, the motorcycle has no equal, excepting
perhaps the motorcar.
Nor should its independence be forgotten. Gloomy
deans do not lie when they emphasize the slavery of life
in an overcrowded democracy. The stoker may call
himself a wage-slave. He is rather less of a slave than the
millionaire with delicate interests in six continents and a
dozen industries, less of a slave than the rising young
doctor with four children to educate and an ambitious
wife. On the road our intrinsic slavery is forgotten. We
may go where we will, and - except in Surrey - we may
go as fast as we please. The willing machine between our
knees is our slave, and we are its king. Nobody except a
policeman can command our obedience, and even police
authority does not extend beyond the next corner unless fate should have placed a second bobby there.
During these brief hours in the saddle we be free men;
124
and we like the taste of it.
Travel Revives the Drooping Soul.
Finally, let a contrast be drawn between the places
where men live and the places where no man lives. An
unkind fate bids most of us dwell in Bayswater, Balham,
Birmingham or some such place. It has no beauty; and
we all love beauty, For most of our lives we are
peggeddown to places which may once have been fair,
but are now disfigured by trams, gin-palaces, hoardings,
suburban villas, newspaper contents bills, and other
unlovely objects. The smear of civilization has not yet
blotted out Dartmoor or Wensleydale or Loch Maree. If
we will, we may revive our drooping souls by travelling
to these Survivals of Nature on the railroad. There is a
curse on railroad holidays. We have forgotten how to
walk. Even if we relentlessly force our reluctant legs to
carry us afield, a few days ex-haust our range. We grow
bored, and the end of the first week finds us oscillating
between the local bars, picture palaces and hippodrome,
or blinking over the latest best-seller in a most uncomfortable parlour. The motor bicycle offers us an unlimited range of travel, with absolute immunity from bore-
dom. We need do nothing but look, and an everchanging
vista is presented to our gaze until stern duty calls us
back to civilisation.
I hate to be utilitarian, but it is true that the motorcycle is no longer of necessity an open door into fairyland. Sordid people construct it, buy it and use it for
their own disgusting purposes, such as saving time or
money or extending the scope of their contemptible
chafferings. It has the great misfortune to be the cheapest form of fast locomotion extant; and as such it is
being increasingly adopted by people who are grossly
unworthy of it. Already we bear identification numbers,
like postmen, convicts, and other necessary evils. Already we are taxed like bills of exchange, dog licences,
and other sordid byproducts of a corrupt civilization.
Before long we shall probably be marshalled along special rubber roads at set speeds. When that ill day comes
I shall emigrate to a coral atoll in the South Seas with a
highpower seaplane.
125
Advertizers
INDEX TO ADVERTISERS
ALLEN-BENNETT MOTOR CO.
BURMAN & SONS, LTD.
BUTTERFIELDS LIMITED
CLYNO ENGINEERING Co., LTD.
EASTING WINDSCREENS, LTD.
F.R.S. LAMPS, LTD.
ILIFFE & SONS, LTD.
JAMES CYCLE Co., LTD.
PALMER’S GARAGE
PHILIPSON & Co., LTD.
RADNALL, E. A., & Co.
RAMONT, LTD.
RENOLD, FANS, LTD.
RUBY CYCLE Co., LTD.
STEVENS, A. J., & Co. (1914), LTD.
TRAFFORD ENGINEERING SUPPLIES
WULFRUNA ENGINFFRTNG (1921) LTD
126
Advertizers
127
Advertizers
128
Advertizers
129
Advertizers
130
Advertizers
131
Advertizers
132
Advertizers
133
Advertizers
134
Advertizers
135
Advertizers
136
Further Reminiscenses of MC - IXION
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. GIRLS
NOTE TO THE READER
MY original volume of reminiscences
was very kindly received by the motor cycling public. Its reception
emboldens me to issue a further
instalment, which I dedicate to all
who sweated and suffered to make
the British motor bicycle the best in
the whole world.
II. CLOTHES
III. STARTING
IV. TOOLS
V. STANDS
VI. CARBURETTERS
VII. FOUR-WHEELERS
VIII. TRICYCLES
IX. LAMPS
X. REPAIRS
XI. PRACTICAL JOKES
XII. MORE PRACTICAL JOKES
XIII. IGNITION
XIV. EQUIPMENT
XV. GEARS
XVI. TYRES
138
1. GIRLS
I. GIRLS
WHEN you come to think of it, it is odd that although I have now reminisced in the Blue’ Un to the tune
of millions of words, I have never headed a chapter with
that mystic intriguing word “Girls.” It has nothing to do
with De morluis nihil nisi bonum, for I am not so aged
that any of my old flames are dead. Neither is it fear, for
nobody knows who “ Ixion “ is, and I can camouflage
the shadier incidents, so that Gladys - if she reads these
pages, will not recognize them. Neither is it gallantry, for
my sentiments about the fair sex are frankly Turkish. It
was just that I never thought of it, so here goes. For
good or evil the trail of the petticoat - or perhaps I
should say in these days, the stamp of the Bolshie boot is over most of the affairs of youthful males, and therefore over motorcycling. Negatively, as when we take up
the hobby in order to avoid females. Tennis, jazzing, the
cinema - these hobbies are impossible for misogynists.
Today the girls even spoil rugger and cricket. Stern
custodians keep them off the field of play, but nothing
short of the zenana system can stop them from coming
and gushing to you afterwards. . . “That last try of yours
was divine!“ or “ I was thrilled when you hit Gregory
over the sight screen!” So some young males buy motor
bikes in order to escape women. Now that women are
becoming keen motorcyclists, the fiercer misogynists
join the flying clubs ; but even these, I am told, are being
invaded. . However, it is the positive influence of women
which is the more felt in our world, for very few of us
are woman haters. For instance, Tom has to buy a motor
bike, because if he doesn’t, Joan will prefer Percy, who
already has a Rough-Inferior. Or Bunty makes us buy a
carrier, when we much prefer to ride minus mudguards.
Or Mamie loathes pillions, and insists on a sidecar; and
rather a stuffy sidecar at that, with hood and screen. Or
Susie puts her foot down with a thud, and says that if we
really buy that o.h.v. Norton, instead of banking the
money towards furnishing, we can’t really love her, and
we shall never, never, never be able to get married, and
all men are beasts, and we are the biggest brute that ever
was, and boo-hoo! Yes, I feel extraordinarily sorry for
the modern youngster with pronounced sporting instincts, and a shallow purse. He must feel almost bisected on occasions. It is hard enough at any time to
find a girl who looks right, and is a decent chum, and
has decent people, and a bit of money coming to her.
139
1. GIRLS
for certain obvious drawbacks, we should unquestionably have had the pick of the basket, for a motor cycle
I feel extraordinarily
implied money, and every daughter of Eve likes to brag
sorry for the modern
over her sisters that her boy is different to their boys. Of
youngster with procourse, she can always gush about his looks or his
nounced sporting incharacter, or his voice. But the other girls can gush back
stincts and a shallow
on those terms. If however, your boy has a motor bike,
purse.
and there isn’t another motor bike in the county, Eve had
a cast-iron proposition which no gush could torpedo.
And if on the top of all these rare qualities, she must Still, it wasn’t as easy as that. Girls do like their boys to
further have her head screwed on correctly where motor be clean; and clean I never was, at that era, or anything
approaching to it. Continuous pushing of my prehistoric
cycles are concerned, hunting for one’s twin soul must
buses to make them start or to get them up hills, had
be something of a forlorn hope.
made me lean. My skin hung in folds and crinkles. The
In my susceptible era, now long since gone by, a
motor cyclist was a very rare bird indeed, and the Hopes folds and crinkles were caulked deeply with oil, carbon,
road dust, and that peculiar viscous greeny-browny-grey
and Prudences and Charities (as they were quaintly
slime which exuded from leather belts. Patent cleansers
termed in those days) adopted a frankly experimental
attitude towards the score or so of us who then existed. had not been invented. If I passed an endearing arm
round Eve’s waist, she had to get her blouse washed
Few of them’ knew two of us, and they didn’t quite
next morning. If I greatly dared to kiss her, it meant an
know what to make of us. It was rather as if a solitary
hour’s labour with sandpaper when she next faced her
American were suddenly to domicile himself in a Devon
mirror, plus powder and enamel for several days aftervillage. We were very strange, and therefore interesting ;
wards. Also mamma noticed.
but they weren’t quite sure that they really liked us. But
140
1. GIRLS
Not only were we personally unclean, but we speedily reduced Eve herself, poor darling, to the most appalling predicament. We took her out in a trailer. Roads were
yet untarred. It took the air of a deep Devon lane half an
hour to regain visibility after a 7 h.p. Panhard had
churned up the Sin. dust. Grey whorls, house high,
marked the passage of our back wheels; and Eve’s
person acted as deflector to the first whorl. Lubrication
systems were crude; on occasions our exhausts were
potent enough to project drops of oil two yards to the
rear, and Eve’s person served them as blotting paper.
Hair was worn long. You raved about Eve to another girl,
as you sat out at a dance. Fondly foolish, you told
Gladys that Eve could sit on her hair (had she not told
you so?). Gladys, blushed, simpered, looked the other
way, and murmured that she could tread on hers. Very
nice too. But after twenty miles in a trailer Eve’s hair
formed a sort of smoke screen astern, which entirely
prevented the local bobby from perusing your number
plate. This was naturally an advantage with a speed limit
of 12 m.h.p. But anon you arrived at the pub where Eve
and you were to have tea-probably avec shrimps, ordered the day before as a surprise for the dear girl. Eve
had fought her mop of rebellious tresses all along the
road, and wasn’t feeling in the pink when you gallantly
helped her out of the open wicker seat. She dashed for a
chambermaid and requested a bedroom. Bedrooms have
mirrors.
Therein her affrighted gaze beheld
1. Imitation of a rope-walk after being bombed.
2. A grey (dust) complexion with green spots (Price’s A ).
She probably sat down and had a good cry (these
mysteries were screened from me, of course ; I guess
what happened by intuition, and by the fact that she was
always a darned long time about coming down again).
Then she reflected
(a) That I was rather a dear (said he modestly).
(b) That anyhow she could have a jolly good crow tomorrow over Judy and Helen and Amy, who had been
pedalling push bikes in the sun.
So she cleaned and tidied, and eventually came
down in not too vile a temper considering. Meanwhile, I
filled in time by shortening the belt. After the shrimps,
there might possibly be an affectionate interlude in a big
141
arm-chair. This ended, Eve would resort to the mirror
again, this time the large overmantel glass in the tearoom. The sight of her hair would provoke one scream
and many pats. Then she would twist herself about, and
probably discover my fingerprints (I take tens in gloves)
indelibly engrossed in belt-grease between her shoulders
on her brand new thirty shilling blouse. That usually tore
it. One Eve I loved, who bore these slings and arrows of
outrageous fortune with magnificent placidity. “Oh, Ixy,
dear!“ was the worst she ever said to me after one of
these catastrophes; and I fancied that I had at last met
my soul’s mate. We were faithful to each other for two
whole years, though I had some horrible fracas with her
parents, when obstreperous motors caused me to return
her to the bosom of her family at 2 a.m. and such like
hours. One day the trailer bar broke. What made things
worse was that I never noticed she was gone.
1. GIRLS
The engine was “bubbling” - old-timers will remember how the prehistoric motor bike would on rare occasions settle down and make a curious bubbly noise never
emitted by a modern engine. I arrived outside the “Crab
and Shrimp,” switched off, dismounted, turned about,
and beheld a bit of jag-ended tube dangling from the
back of my seat pillar. Green with panic, for I truly
adored Eve, I fled back down the road, and four miles
away I sighted a wan, forlorn little figure seated in the
gutter with her back against the wall, her hair down, her
costume grey with dust, cuts showing in her jacket, and
small dabbles of blood about her person. When the bar
broke, she had turned a lovely back somersault, and
stood on her mop of hair - Providence evidently arranged that the fashion of long hair should coincide with
the trailer period. After that she had slowly overbalanced,
and hit the part she sits on against a sharp flint projecting
from the macadam. “This is the last time!” she pontificated when at last I got her into a trap. Her mother said
so too. Darling Eve, if by chance you read these words,
put a small prepaid in our agony column, and say you
have forgiven me.
142
1. GIRLS
Followed a series of amorous interludes. The epitaph of most of them might be dismissed with the one
word “ irt.” Motorcycling was a filthy pastime at this
epoch, and no decent girl likes to be reduced to a scarecrow within half an hour of adorning herself for the
credit of her man. Incidentally, I am very glad that the
pastime was dirty. Young males are extraordinarily green
in the calf stage, and not the least debt which I owe to
the motor-bike is that it possibly delivered me from
some of these young persons. I have met some of them
since. Even the pious are said to fail to give thanksgiving
its due place in their orisons; but I have uttered many a
heartfelt thanksgiving when the fairy who booted me four
years back introduced me to her husband and her twins
or, revealed herself as having developed an extra eight
stone in the interval.
Another obvious difficulty was that if there was only
one motor bike in the county, Judy couldn’t come out
with you without the entire town discussing your affairs.
Parents resent the secrecy of young humans in their first
amorous adventures. But there is real practical value in a
few experiments under the rose. You can drop each
other, if you don’t suit, without any bobbery. But if the
whole of two families begin to picture you married after
the first evening you have cooed -to each other, it is less
simple to draw back. I think the girls of igoo felt this
keenly where a motor cyclist was concerned. The whole
affair was far too public; and she held back unless she
was seriously attracted.
As the result of these trailer experiences, I was
probably the first amateur owner of a tricar in Great
Britain. The fairy would now sit in front. She would get
no dust. No oil-laden exhaust would bespatter her complexion. Unfortunately the Paris studios seized this moment to decree a new kind of hat. I have forgotten the
technical name for it, but I can do a word painting of its
contours. Take a large meat dish, the sort a large family
uses for a Sunday sirloin. Invert a teacup at one of the
foci of its oval. Get several yards of pink satin ribbon
about eight inches wide, and wreathe it round the teacup,
finishing up the slack with a large bow. Group a few
assorted fruit and flowers about the brim. Stick it on
Judy’s head, with an elastic passing under the bun of hair
above the nape of her neck. Now picture the conduct of
this colossal chapeau in an open forecar at forty miles
an hour.
143
The meat-dish portion stood straight up, gradually
developed flying speed, I began to tug at the elastic.
Either the elastic snapped, and the hat was rescued from
a ditch full of green slime - thenceforward barely fit even
for a charity jumble sale - or else the elastic was new,
and held. In which case the bun came adrift, Judy rose
to her feet screaming, her hair came down, and she
probably toppled out sideways. In any case finis was
dead certain to be written across love’s young dream.
Nor was this the worst.
1. GIRLS
My tricar had a single-geared belt drive and an engine of nominally 2-1/2 h.p. In those days designers
thought of a number, doubled it, and that was their brake
horse power. Incidentally, I lived in South Devon. So
when the tricar reached a hill, I pedalled till my face
looked like a gunner colonel when a waiter spills soup
down his neck. As the engine died away, I would yell to
Judy to jump out and push. If Judy was a fool she would
try to obey; but it isn’t easy to jump sideways out of a
fore-car, and I remember running clean over her on one
occasion. So she arranged that I was to take her up as
far as I could. We then stopped while she got out. I
descended, cooling the engine and myself. I then made a
fresh climb under reduced load while she walked the rest
of the hill. This did not work too badly for a time. But it
fell on a day that her generous heart melted as I overtook
her on my second ascent. The thermometer was at 100o,
and rivers of sweat were pouring over my purple countenance as I stood on each pedal alternately. She tripped
into the road and tried to fall in behind and help me with
a push. The grade eased, and the engine accelerated.
Judy behaved just like the punting novice, who is uncertain whether to remain with the pole or proceed with the
144
1. GIRLS
punt. She hung on like grim death, uttering little screams.
My heart was thumping so after the pedalling that I never
heard her. 1 was frightfully pleased because the summit
was in sight and I was juggling with the twin tap control
in search of an extra rev. or two. Down she went on her
nose. In some manure. Heigho!
That woman has her place in the universe, the most
stringent misogynist must admit. But her place is emphatically several miles away from where a motorist is
executing awkward repairs. Helen came next. By this
time we had a giant tricar, capable of 60 m.p.h. It had
one serious fault. If the back tyre went, the rear spring
on one side closed up, opening out its opposite number.
The rear wheel lay over at 60o, and the machine instantly
became unsteerable. You had two choices. You could
either capsize in the centre of the roadway, or you could
ditch the bus on the side of the road next the closed
spring. One day my back tyre blew up somewhere in
Hants. The ditch being soft and not too deep, whilst the
road looked bony, I ditched her. Helen, devoid of technical knowledge, was unnecessarily rude. We patched up
that shindy, and like a fool a week later I trained Helen
over with me and the new tyre. We hauled the bus out of
the pigstye of the village inn, where we had garaged it,
and under a blistering sun I commenced to fit that tyre.
There was no standardization in those days, and it was
about an inch too small in diameter. I wrestled with it for
two hours while Helen sat in an armchair and read Forget-Me-Not. When she’d finished the last page, she
looked up at me. You could have wrung gallons out of
my garments, and I had just stood up to stretch my
back, and enjoy one long, eloquent, silent swear. “Won’t
it go on, darling? “ she cooed. Well, I just blew up.
“Does the blinkety, blankety, dash.... thing look as if it
would go on?”
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1. GIRLS
Helen made no attempt to stem the torrent of my
eloquence, which I regretfully admit got rather pink in
parts. She turned round, and marched straight off to the
station. Her successor showed me Forget-Me-Not a
fortnight later. I don’t know if that superb journal still
exists; it had a splendid “Auntie “ who gave advice to
damosels crossed in love. On ,”Auntie’s“ page an
S.O.S. from a certain “ H “ was answered. “ H “ was
feeling some faint pricks of conscience; ought she perhaps to have overlooked a not altogether unnatural irritation? Emphatically NO, thought “Auntie.” No nice man
would use the language you indicate in the presence of a
girl whom he genuinely respects. “You are well rid of
him.” Perhaps she was; and perhaps I also can claim a
deliverance.
146
II. CLOTHES
For a convict who had done
twenty years in prison could be
released into the middle of a crowd
of motor cyclists checking in after a
trial in bad weather, he would certainly run grave risks of throwing a
fit; for it cannot be denied that we
look an oddish crowd under such
conditions. Indeed, a lag who had
been incarcerated for a far shorter
period might be moved to inextinguishable laughter at his first visit to
the front at Eastbourne on a grilling
August day, where gay berets and
Fair Isle jerseys would probably
strike him as weird. It is custom
which makes clothes look smart or
positively ridiculous. I have no doubt
that a crowd of hooting urchins
would pursue me if I ventured outside my gate in the motor-cycling
costume of 1900 A.D. Yet at the time
2. CLOTHES
I was most certainly the envy of all
the local knuts; I deemed my garb to
be smart, work-manlike, and well
designed for the job in hand. Shall I
tell you about it?
The general effect was a cross
between a Pekinese and a deep
sea diver.
147
At that date all good
“autocarists,” as we were called,
unless we went by the name of
“chauffeur “ (long since restricted to
professional drivers), wore fur coats
made of the pelt of an alleged China
goat. Not having visited China, I do
not know whether there are goats in
that country, or whether the term was
a trade name. Anyhow, the individual
hairs of the fur were about 4 inches
long, and rather coarse. The ground
colour was white, with patches of
pale brown and blue, and the fur
bristled, instead of lying flat. We
motor cyclists soon decided that
these coats were unfit for our use.
Car owners moved in little groups,
and their normal habitat was a firstclass hotel. We moved singly: our
mounts often stranded us by the
roadside; and a fellow who looked
joke a cross between a bobtail
2. CLOTHES
sheepdog and a doormat soon began to trail a queue of
the populace behind him, if he dismounted. At this date
motor cyclists, like cavalry in the Great War, were more
often dismounted than not. So we hunted about for an
alternative dress.
Being a bit of a dude, I went to Conduit Street for
my first get-up. The tailor was quite dogmatic. “Owing
to the great speed of autocycles, sir,” he began, “the first
requisite of good auto-tailoring is warmth.” He cut me
(a) A single breasted black leather jacket with huge black
buttons.
(b) A double-breasted black leather waistcoat to suit.
(c) A pair of loose black leather slacks.
(d) A black leather cap with shiny peak, such as is now
worn only by the shabbier sort of taxicab driver.
(e) A pair of huge black leather gloves, with gauntlets
which reached to my elbows.
He further supplied a pair of “Paris-Berlin” goggles,
as worn by Rene de Knyff, Jarrott and Edge. The lenses
were the size of teacups, and were mounted at the outer
end of large aluminium cylinders, some 3 inches long.
The general effect was a cross between a Pekinese and a
deep sea diver. A week later I put on the lot, and twisting
round in front of Snips’ pier-glass felt that I looked
“some lad.” On second thoughts, I had the outfit sent
round to my digs, instead of wearing it afoot through the
streets. This very expensive suit nearly did me one good
turn. Clad in it, I looked so positively gigantic that the
Oxford rugger captain, whose scrum was on the light
side, asked whether I would play in a trial match. Otherwise my £20 was utterly wasted. Snips was in gross
error when he alleged that motor cycling of the Zgo0
vintage was a cold sport. You began by perspiring gallons in the effort to start your engine on the stand. You
continued by perspiring more gallons in pedalling it off
on the road after warming up. If the road was flat, you
might next conceivably cool down for a few moments,
but it was only a matter of minutes before a hill necessitated either hard pedalling or harder pushing, or misfiring
compelled you to pedal so that the engine might be
carried over the explosion strokes on which no explosion occurred. Thick leather - and leather was leather in
1900 - was no garb for such a life.
I need hardly tell the imaginative reader that in 1900
148
2. CLOTHES
there were no dustless roads or tarmac. Summer found
our main highways covered with an inch or two of fine
red or grey or brown powder, which arose in suffocating
clouds at the passage of any sort of traffic - even a flock
of sheep. So one’s leather suit changed colour every
day; and its aspect when a light drizzle melted its film of
dust into a toothpaste consistency, quite baffled description.
I went to Conduit Street to curse Snips. He was
suave and affable. “All the best autocarists,” he assured
me, “keep two suits.” He produced samples of
fairweather suiting. It consisted of a material called
“crash” - possibly our fair readers may identify it. The
suit consisted of a thin light jacket and trousers of some
pale fawn material resembling the stuff they make into
...to the loss of flesh consequent on
motor cycling under that 3 cwt.
leather outfit.
expensive handkerchiefs, and topped by the most appalling little caplet of the same stuff. Seven guineas! I purchased, because all hopes of a rugger blue were evaporating owing to the loss of flesh consequent on motor
cycling under that 3 cwt. leather outfit. I did not like my
appearance in that “crash” suit, and I liked it even less
after a few repairs had dabbled it with oases of grease,
and a tumble or two had resulted in my landlady patching the tears with large crisscross stitches.
Ere long I had a slight go of pneumonia, engendered
by pedalling till I became what Mantalini called a “dem’d
moist unpleasant body and then cooling down at speed
in an east wind. By this time I had sent that awful leather
suit to a jumble sale, and the crash suit was reduced to
garage rags, useful for mopping oil off the contactbreaker or grey slime off the leather belt. When I was
convalescent, I felt the need of some new raiment, and
an expert pal sent me round to another tailor, who - I am
very sorry to see - is still in business, and apparently
flourishing. At the time I thought him a genius. He was
most sympathetic. “Why,” he inquired of a puzzled
universe, “should an autocarist look as if he had been
recently imported from Thibet by an explorer, and had
149
2. CLOTHES
contrived to break out of the Zoo? A gentleman should
look like a gentleman. Now I have devoted much thought
to chauffing attire.” He beckoned to an assistant, who
unrolled a huge cylinder of lovely greenery-heathery
tweed. “In a suit of this a gentleman could go almost
anywhere except to Windsor. By itself it would not be
warm enough for high speeds. So I line it with camel
fleece, camel fleece being - adequately ventilated for
tropical suns, and yet so warm that the camel can lie
snug in the open under night frosts. I intercept penetrating rain by a thin centre lining of the finest rubber sheet,
pared as light as gold-beater’s skin. This, my dear sir, is
the perfect motoring garb.”
I bought.
Instead of those infernal slacks, which were always
getting hooked on the pedals, he gave me riding
breeches, and my shapely calves looked their neatest in a
pair of blocked mahogany gaiters. Full of beans, I set off
for the Highlands. The suit seemed a trifle stuffy, and it
dawned on me that the admirable theoretical ventilation
of the camel fleece was rather blocked by the rubber
sheet. However, the bus ran like a dream, and my complaints did not become serious till my timing gear gave a
little screech outside Pitlochry, after which both valves
became inert. I pushed into the town, and put up at
Fisher’s. In those days Fisher’s was famous as the most
exclusive, expensive and luxurious hotel in Europe. I had
missed lunch that day owing to the misconduct of my
engine, and I stalked into the vast dining salon with the
most pleasurable anticipations. I gave my orders, and
surveyed the assembled nobility at the surrounding tables
with stares even haughtier than their own - they were, of
course, scandalized at my venturing amongst them in
breeches and gaiters at a date when everybody dressed
for dinner. Suddenly I felt myself bursting into a hot
sweat. After all, the dining room was superheated, and I
had about a hundredweight of clothes on. It is difficult to
look dignified when beads of burning liquid are dripping
off your nose. The waiter brought a large bowl of
potage d la claasseur. Its steam rose and smote my
countenance. I waved it hastily away, though there was a
gnawing sensation of hunger at my vitals. I managed the
fish, but I was by this time dripping so visibly that the
drip might presently be audible on the polished floor. I
rose with haste. “Send a quart of bitter and a large steak
to room 45,” I murmured, as I fled. I came down to
breakfast next morning with nothing on at all except that
150
2. CLOTHES
suit. The mahogany gaiters abraded my bare calf. The
camel fleece lining tickled my manly hide in a thousand
places, whilst my underclothes vainly attempted to dry
out on a chair close to my open bedroom window. But a
heat wave had begun, and with nothing on except boots,
gaiters, breeches and D.B. three-ply jacket, I sat and
sopped. I beat another retreat, and breakfasted upstairs.
After the feed, I went the round of the Pitlochry tailors.
There wasn’t a reach-me-down merchant among them.
At long last a spare set of timing gears arrived from
town, and I departed at speed, full of vengeful intentions
with regard to that blinking tailor. At Edinburgh I bought
a large suitcase and a ready-made kit, without which I
did not stir abroad per motor cycle for several years to
come. If the guilty tailor reads these lines, he may be
interested to hear the fate of that awful suit. Soon after
these catastrophes, a pal of mine left his country for his
country’s good. He tried to touch me for a fiver on his
way to Liverpool, but no motor cyclist of that date ever
owned anything except his bike and his debts. So I gave
him the suit, and he wore it out feeding cows at 30 degrees below zero somewhere near Winnipeg on a farm
owned by a German.
The Problem Solved (?)
Ever since that date I have learnt to solve our clothing problems in the modern style, to wit, by wearing
ordinary clothes as a substratum, with overalls of varying
efficiency on top as a protection against wind and rain
and dust. Even thus, curious pitfalls may waylay the best
of us. For example, as long as repairs were of frequent
occurrence, we all carried a few handy tools in our side
pockets. We had to, because no known tool-bag would
contain all that we might need. One season - 1911, I think
- tyres were particularly dud. After various vicissitudes, I
bought from Patchquick or some such person a half
pound tin of rubber solution with press-lid. In a Scottish
Six Days my crankshaft broke on a wild, open moor. I
pushed profanely to a small hut visible on the distant
horizon, ejected the poultry which it contained, and took
refuge from the blinding rain until such time as the local
bus (one per day) should heave in sight. “Thank heaven
for tobacco,” I ejaculated fervently, as my right hand
dived into my side pocket. It refused to emerge. My
features would have been worth a fortune to Harold
Lloyd at that moment. The press-lid of my half pound tin
of solution had come unpressed en route. I am told that
151
pulling candy is a popular sport in U.S.A. It is child’s
play to pulling half a pound of rubber solution, with the
distant hope of saving one smokable gasper from the
wreck.
In a certain Six Days, Loughborough’s predecessor,
the late Freddy Straight, garaged some of us in a stable.
The sky had split that morning, and whilst other riders
were, cursing the weather, knowing that their overalls
were not rainproof for more than ten minutes, I had been
rather unbearable at breakfast by boasting that my new
Dunhill umbrella coat was drencher proof, and that its
rubber neck positively excluded those filthy trickles
which go down the back of one’s neck with most other
coats. Wheeling my bus out of the stable, the Dunhill
caught on a nail whereon the stableman was wont to
hang a bridle or something. Tearfully I besought the
boys to sew up the split extending from my neck to my
waist. But we all knew it would be difficult to keep time
anyhow in such weather. The wind was astern; and
viewed from the front I gave an imitation of the R.A.F.
badge all morning, with two huge wings of fawn gabardine extending on each side of my soaked and unprotected back.
2. CLOTHES
“Water-Cooled” Feet
That same year we had another awful day somewhere up north in a trial, of which I remember two incidents. Somebody had given me a pair of sea-boots, into
which I gratefully tucked the hems of a large pair of
oilskin trousers. I was too busy keeping my topheavy
bus vertical to worry much about other sensations,
though I had been conscious all. day that my feet felt
funny. At the lunch stop the reporter of a technical paper
came up to me. “Hello, old man, have you got a watercooled engine?” “ Water-cooled be blanked,” I replied
rudely, having had all the water I wanted that morning.
He pointed to my feet. Clouds of steam were arising
from my nearside boot. Aghast, I drew it off and poured
out about a quart of water, which had drained off my
oilskin trousers, and was nearly boiling, thanks to the
proximity of the silencer. The following year I was seduced into wearing a cape which had two loops for
hooking on to the handle bar after mounting, so that its
front panel kept water off the machine. It worked admirably, and my magneto and carburetter came through a
terrific downpour without incident. But when I dismounted, the gallon of water which had collected in the
152
2. CLOTHES
lap of the cape poured all over my magneto and gave me
a lot of bother. I cut a small drainage hole in the lap of
the cape before taking the road again; but the cape died
an early death when I parted company with the bus,
thanks to a suicidally-minded sheep diving into my front
wheel. The neck of the cape followed me into the ditch,
but the bulk of the front panel elected to go on with the
bus, and that was that.
I shudder to think what I must have spent on clothing since I started motorcycling. Invested in Courtaulds,
it would have been . . . oh cuss!
153
3. STARTING
III. STARTING
INCREDIBLE as it may seem, many people who
bought motor cycles in early times did not succeed in
starting the engine for several days.
Several bugaboos ministered to this difficulty. There
was no kick-starter, pedal gear of the push bike type
being provided for rotating the engine - this was nominally the sole function of the gear; but one soon learnt
that its main utility was on hills. An unpractised novice
could hardly hope to pedal a clutchless machine of
tolerable weight along the road for any great distance,
and no cold engine of the 1900-1905 vintage would start
in a few yards; Why did we not run and jump? Well, we
did later. But if you had never seen anybody employ this
mount, the notion was rather terrifying. Besides, the
engine probably wouldn’t start until you had run yourself
to a standstill; and if it did start and you jumped straight
the engine would instantly stop.
Items of Interest
Here are some of the factors.
Item: the lubricating oil of those days was of a gluey
consistency, which induced a gumminess akin to
welding.
Item : the cylinder head was an amorphous casting,
which distorted like a wax candle under a tropic sun.
Item : the ignition was something of a lottery at the best
of times.
Item : the carburetter consisted of an inch of petrol
swilling about in a sort of biscuit tin and never gassed
really furiously at low speeds.
So the first essential was to pedal the machine off on
a stand until it felt hot and free and willing. No stand was
provided. ‘ Indeed, for some years no stand could be
bought. You had to get the local blacksmith to make one.
I well remember half killing myself in the endeavour to
get a new machine started by pedalling or running it
along. Eventually, a brain-wave would come along. As it
was the custom to mount push bikes by hopping along
with one foot on a step screwed to the back wheel
spindle, motor bicycles were automatically provided with
such steps. As a customer might be either a right or left
footed hopper, there was a step on each side. (They
were needed too - one firm which I patronized in the
154
3. STARTING
early days listed machines with 22, 24, 26 and 28 in.
frames; the saddle of the latter sized frame must have
been over a yard off the ground.) These steps were a
godsend, as the machine could be supported by resting
the steps across a pair of sugar boxes or other improvised supports.
This done, I injected about half a pint of paraffin
into the compression tap, drew a long breath, and
pedalled furiously. My tailor tells me my legs measure 37
inches from the fork to the datum line, and the standard
frame of those days was perhaps 26 inches. So the
surplus 11 inches of leg was disposed of above the
saddle, with which my person made no contact during
these operations. One literally stood on the pedals, and if
a boot slipped off a pedal during these Herculean digs as it was bound to do - with what a sickening thud one
descended on to the tank. I might further mention that
this tank-top was armed with four wooden levers, projecting some five inches apiece, and operating the ignition throttle, air and compression tap. So one ceased fire
on becoming impaled.
Like a Maiden’s Sigh
At long last the engine would fire. There would be
no hearty roar such as salutes the glad ears of the modern ‘utter a few seconds after he has tickled the float
chamber. The initial explosion would be a singleton, as
the card-players say, and it would sound like a maiden’s
sigh. Still, it converted your growing despair into ardent
hope. You increased the revs, of your ankling. In perhaps half a minute you would wring a genuinely audible
puff from the engine. Faster and faster flew your legs,
and anon a tutta-tutta would begin, and, with further
pedalling, would swell into quite a regular noise. Meanwhile, the shed would be blued by the fumes of the burnt
paraffin, and the Tate sugar boxes would begin to oscillate about the floor. You sat down on the saddle, toyed
with the afore-mentioned quartette of levers, and inhaled
blue paraffin smoke into your purple cheeks.
If you did not stop the engine by incautious use of
the coarse air control, the engine was now ready for a
pukka start on the road itself, for, having no clutch, you
had to stop the engine before you could commence your
ride. I once had a brain-wave, and arranged my sugar
boxes so that the front wheel faced the door. I then
155
3. STARTING
suborned the cook and the housemaid to up-end them as
I sat on the machine with the engine running, the wire
nails having been driven in towards the front corners of
the crate. Never again!
If this preliminary ritual had been properly carried
out, the second or real start on the road itself was seldom very arduous, especially if there was a slight fall in
the road. It was, of course, possible that the engine
might pull up on a compression just as your foot was
shoving the pedal hard down. In that case the pedal flew
back, and you might be projected violently backwards
out of the saddle. More usually your foot slipped ‘off
the pedal and you felt as if you had stopped one of
Dempsey’s with your tummy. As a matter of fact, I very
soon adopted the run and jump mount for start No. 2;
but for start No. 1 the pedals were absolutely essential.
A moment’s thought will convince the reader that the
free-wheel made or marred this pedalling gear. The freewheels for several years were of the standard push bike
variety, which was never designed for such heavy duty.
It could obviously play you two abominable tricks. On
the one hand, it might free-wheel both ways, in which
case nothing but a long, steep hill would set your ma-
chine going from cold. On the other hand, it might seize
and become a fixed wheel. This was intensely dangerous. In the motor shed it meant that when your engine
started, the pedals, instead of sinking into instant rest,
continued revolving at increased speed. You tried to
keep your feet on them, but, of course, they slipped off
and inflicted horrific gashes on your calves. This explains why leather gaiters were de rigueur with all pioneer motor cyclists. Or they might seize on the road. The
immediate action, as machine gunners call it, was a
dismount.
156
This explains
why leather
gaiters were de
rigueur
In the side of your tool-bag was a miserable little tin
oilcan containing about a dessertspoonful of paraffin. (I
earned many a guinea for eloquent articles, pleading that
the capacity of this can should be increased to a quart.)
Plenteous injections of paraffin would generally free the
free-wheel again, but you had probably used all the juice
to start the engine. In that case you had to continue your
ride on a machine which was revolving two enormous
pedals in a semi-visiblr blur, something like the scythes
on the hubs of Boadicea’s war chariots. Worse still were
the days on which the free-wheel behaved intermittently.
.. a miserable little tin
oilcan containing about
a dessertspoonful of
paraffin.
3. STARTING
You would be pedalling on the stand to get a start or
up a hill to avert a probable push, when the pedal would
slip right down from 1 o’clock to 6 o’clock, and you
would feel like a man who has gone up two steps which
aren’t there, only more so. Anon, having breasted the
hill, you would catch a mighty gasp of breath and cease
pedalling, whereupon the pedals would continue revolving, hammer your ankles, and probably throw you off.
An Organist’s Antics
Neither was the jump mount so peaceful as it may
sound. When you leap on to the saddle of a modem
machine there is nothing to do but tuck away the skirts
of your overcoat, adjust your goggles, and open out.
But in igoo the engine felt the sudden addition of 12
stones to its load, and its carburation was promptly
upset. It probably stopped firing as a protest. You
started pedalling desperately, simultaneously making
lightning dabs at the levers on the tank. You would get
these set somewhere about right, when a clumsy knee
coming up on top dead centre of the pedal might disturb
the air lever, and an unearthly silence would again descend upon the landscape, mercifully unbroken by
oaths, as one had no breath left with which to swear.
157
3. STARTING
to woggle. Or the exhaust valve might be seizing as one
side of the cylinder head slowly expanded an inch more
than the opposite side, and pulled the valve guide all
.. an unearthly silence
cockeyed.
would again descend
Probably the misfires continued and grew worse. A
upon the landscape..
dismount being the last resource of despair, your brain
worked tigerishly. You remembered that you had run no
fresh petrol into the biscuit tin that morning. So you
unscrewed a tiny cap off a nob on the tank. Out popped
a small piece of wire, which was attached to a subterranean float, and indicated the depth of petrol in the tin.
Meanwhile the cap rolled out of your nervous fingers
and flew into the ditch. No matter. Insufficient petrol in
This emergency surmounted, you might enjoy a
cooling down for a few minutes. But before long a mis- the carburetter. You unscrewed another knob, controlling
a needle valve, and ran some more juice into the biscuit
fire was certain to salute your ears. Instantly all your
faculties became agog. What was this pernicious misfire? tin. Joy ! The misfires ceased.
Very probably you had just crossed a pothole, which
The Elements of Tragedy
had caused the shallow pool of petrol at the bottom of
Before very long a compulsory stoppage invariably
the biscuit tin, miscalled a carburetter, to leap wildly, and
occurred. Should it be of a lengthy character and befall
to choke your engine with rich mixture for a revolution
you on the flat, all the elements of real tragedy were
or two. Or the sparking plug, insulated with ordinary
present. Let us suppose for the moment that you sucdomestic china, might be cracking with heat. Or the
platinum screw of the contact breaker might have begun cessfully traced the cause, though in all probability you
158
wouldn’t. However, for the sake of argument, we will
say that the wire from battery negative to switch had
sawn itself in half against the sharp edge of the hole
through which it emerged from the tin tank. You got out
your knife, peeled away some insulation, plaited the
naked ends of wire together, pulling out a few coils to
make up the length thus sacrificed. (All wires were freely
coiled in long cork-screws to render such repairs possible, and any picture of a igoo machine will betray these
squiggly corkscrews outside each binding post.)
By this time the engine would be stone cold. You
had no stand. All your paraffin was used up long ago.
The road was flat. Why not inject petrol, do you say,
gentle reader? Nothing less searching than paraffin would
dissolve the carbonized oil of this period. Moreover,
even if you could dope off the gummed oil, your morning run had developed two or three new warps in the
cylinder.
As a rule, if the engine got really cool, there was no
hope of restarting without the aid of a good steep hill.
For this reason it was lucky that I lived in Devonshire
where hills are plentiful. But on one mournful occasion I
was stopped by a broken wire in the village of
3. STARTING
Parracombe. Its southern exit is a short hill of 1 in 5. Its
northern exit is a long hill of 1 in 5. Both up, of course. I
meekly chartered a farm cart, which conveyed me and
the machine to the summit of the longer hill, down which
I successfully restarted my glutinous engine.
Worse tragedies were, of course, possible. Pushing
would generally bring one, sooner or later, to a hill of
sorts. Paraffin was procurable at any farm or cottage.
The seized free-wheel could be sluiced free. The freewheel both ways could be faked by an earnest fellow
with a hair-pin till some of its pawls gripped. In time I
made it a rule to carry a spare free-wheel. But if one fell
off, the pedals or cranks were sure to get damaged. And
one fell off so often.
One fell off because the top-heavy machine was
literally unsteerable on real grease. One fell off because
one was exhausted by pedalling. One fell off because
things seized or jammed. One fell off because that is the
simplest way of stopping when one has no brakes and
the road is blocked by anything hard, such as a traction
engine.
159
4. TOOLS
IV. TOOLS
THE innocent reader may imagine that about A.D.
1900, as motor cycles were excessively bad, makers
generously provided us with an enormous kit of tools.
You credit Britain with more logic than it possesses.
The motor cycle was developed upwards from the
push bike. Everybody knows what a push bike tool kit
is. There are two small slots in the back rim of the
saddle. From these slots there depends precariously by
two flimsy straplets a tiny wallet, not unlike the case in
which a society dame carries visiting cards. Within this
case you find a white knitted duster of large mesh, about
nine inches square ; three spanners stamped out of old
biscuit tins; and a leaky oil squirt with a reservoir the size
of a florin. This - neither more nor less - was bodily
transferred to the first motor bikes when they were first
invented.
The policy was neither so callous nor so unimaginative as you may suppose. If I may criticize it at all, I
would merely say that a bolder and more logical manufacturer would not have issued any tools at all. The tools
which he actually supplied were obviously worthless. An
ideal tool kit, which might have fulfilled our frequent
needs, would have burst a Saratoga trunk of the type
which American school marms convey, to the steamer
when they start to “do Yurrup.” This trunk was not
portable on a motor cycle. Ergo, why carry any tools at
all?
So those of us who served our novitiate in prehistoric days took the road gaily with this bare equipment,
and in time we added to it, according to taste. The road
soon developed a special instinct in me. I came to know
where every blacksmith’s shop for fifty miles round was
situated; and if I was faring forth into unknown counties,
I con-sulted good military maps, and composed a list of
the smithies along the route. At this date we disposed of
our feet, when riding, in three principal ways.
No. 1. There were two little saw-toothed steps, each
about three inches long, clipped to the front forks. (I
soon scrapped these, because you can’t steer a fast
machine with a pair of No. io boots clinging to the fork
blades, and not less because the said steps used to
jangle down the forks to the hub and rip the spokes out.)
No. 2. You kept your feet on the pedals, one foot up
at twelve o’clock, and the other foot down at six
o’clock on the opposite side.
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4. TOOLS
There were
two little sawtoothed steps
clipped to the
front forks
No. 3. You spread the pedals out horizontally, one
foot forward at three o’clock, the other foot back at nine
o’clock.
Then came a smash. One of the pedal cranks was
bent inwards or broke off short, generally across the
pedal spindle eye. If the crank was merely bent, you
wended - nice word, that - your way to the next smithy,
borrowed a 15-inch monkey wrench, and straightened
the crank; meanwhile, you could not pedal to start. If the
crank broke, one foot had to be waved in the air until
you arrived at a cycle shop and bought a new crank. The
cranks had to be bent, for standard straight cycle cranks
would not clear the contact-breaker and other projections. So ere long I learnt it was wise to carry two spare
cranks, and a colossal spanner for straightening them.
These would obviously never fit into any conceivable
tool bag, so I bought a rucksack, in which I disposed
my spares and tools. The next discovery was that the
standard tool kit contained no implement for dealing with
belts. At this date our belts were of the twisted raw hide
variety. All one needed was a bradawl and a knife. I
bought them. I used my machine chiefly to keep appointments with sundry damsels of extraordinary charm. They
161
I learnt it was wise to
carry two spare
cranks and a colossal
spanner for
straightening them.
4. TOOLS
expected to be caressed at short intervals. Now even a
Victorian damsel objected quite feverishly to having her
chin chucked by fingers which had just been engaged in
shortening a belt doped with collan oil. A small hatchet
was indicated. I added one to the contents of the rucksack.
My knowledge of electricity at this era was comparable to my grasp of differential calculus, i.e., it was nil
with a large N. So when my coil and accumulator ignition
gave trouble, which it did on almost every run, my methods were painstaking rather than scientific.
I went carefully over both sides of the machine to
see if every “binding post” was duly adorned with a
brass terminal and a piece of black flex. There were
about a dozen and a half of these binding posts.
If this survey led to no results, I tried a spare plug
(of the porcelain insulator type price is at Gamage’s). If
the spare plug remained quiescent after ten minutes
pedalling, I installed the spare accumulator, always provided that it hadn’t dropped off away back somewhere.
If the spare cell didn’t start the engine, I pushed home.
One day I encountered a person whom I conceived
to be a maniac. We had ridden some miles together,
when the chuff-chuff of his engine stopped, and he
threw up a hand as a distress signal. We dismounted. He
carefully pulled out of his breast-pocket an object resembling a hen’s egg, turned from yellow boxwood. He
unscrewed it amidships, and one half revealed two short
lengths of flex, tipped with metal, while the other contained a 4-volt bulb. He proceeded to apply this daintily
to all his binding posts. I gazed in mute wonder. He
informed me by degrees that our ignition circuits were of
the 4-volt type; that there ought to be a light between any
two points of the circuit which were theoretically
con-nected; that if the light was white, the battery was
O.K; that if the light sank to a surly pink, one had better
be resigned to a push.
We were presently overjoyed that his lamp failed to
light when connected across two points of his circuit ;
and downcast to the nethermost pit because the wires
seemed to be O.K. after all. Then I-I, if you please spotted the fact that we had put the lamp across the
contact breaker, which was open. Eventually we found a
broken wire and got him going again.
Returning home, off I hurried to my dealer. He
162
4. TOOLS
laughed. I could have a test lamp for 4s. But all the best
motor cyclists used a voltmeter at 15s. - a much more
scientific instrument. Of course, no real electrician would
use a shoddy instrument - the deadbeat type, as carried
by Edge and Jarrott, would be 35s. I sighed. My wages
were only £3, and I knew Gladys was apt to be cold if I
bought no chocolates. But it had to be. However, I got
value, for I showed my voltmeter to every motor cyclist
I met, and though I met several who possessed meters,
none of them were deadbeat like mine.
I did so when I got home; and the very first time I
wanted it the bulb had gone west through keeping too
close company with the coal hammer in my rucksack. In
future the test lamp reposed in my breast pocket, and pill
boxes full of cotton wool housed two spare bulbs, one
in each of my waistcoat pockets.
For some months my rucksack received no new
tenants. Came a day when something incontinently removed many of the spokes from my back wheel. I forget
what it was - it may have been the sheer debility of the
wheel, or it may have chanced that a stand or some other
An Appropriate Name
fitting slid along the tubes into the wheel. I was laboriSome weeks later that infernal voltmeter stranded
ously carted some miles to a cycle shop, where I
me. It was a Sunday, and I wanted to go nearly 200
watched a deft repairer with a spoke nipple key restore
miles. I applied the deadbeat to the battery. The needle
the wheel from ellipticity to rotundity. I bought his tools,
flew to the “4” and glued itself there quiveringly, like a
and weeks later on a lonely moorside one of my wheels
Guardsman saluting Royalty. Off I went. The engine
again dissolved. Out came the nipple key and the spare
seemed to lack pep, and after a time it petered out up a
spokes from the rucksack, and I sat down on the turf
ridiculously easy hill. Yet when I applied the deadbeat, I kerb, full of gay confidence, to true the rebuilt wheel.
got my 4 volts all right. Some hours later a kindly cove
It looked uncommonly nice when I had finished. I
on an antique Panhard happened along. He smiled pityreplaced the Bowden horse-shoe rear brake with some
ingly. “That meter is no good. Your cells are probably
care, as the rubber shoe had fallen out of my front brake
down to 3.6 volts. Get a common or garden flash lamp.” (a spoon type, operating on top of the front tyre), and I
163
was then on the top of Dartmoor. When I pulled the
machine off the stand, there was a sickening tinkle, and
several spokes clattered into the road, fouled by the
Bowden brake. I unpacked everything, and started all
over again.
4. TOOLS
I soon learnt that getting a wheel true enough to clear
a close-set horseshoe brake is no child’s play. It was
dusk before I finished.
Not long afterwards the Bowden wires of the outfit
commenced to give trouble. Theoretically, a Bowden
wire is equal to the strain of towing a derelict battle
cruiser. In practice, much depends on the fitting ; and in
xgoo makers left a lot of the stranded wire naked, led it
round sharp corners, and committed other technical
blunders which forbade its giving us of its best. The wire
to the rear brake was absolutely indispensable, and on
several occasions I had to hire a cart because this wire
had broken. See illustration that follows...
I soon learned that getting a wheel true is no child’s play
164
4. TOOLS
Having seen various mechanics solder it into new
nipples, I bought a soldering iron, a small phial of flux,
some sticks of solder, and a pocket blowlamp, all of
which duly went into the rucksack. They acted like an
insurance policy, and nothing happened for weeks. At
last one bleak autumn night, right on the top of Haldon,
the rear brake wire snapped in two just aoove the nipple.
I shortened the sheathing, trimmed off the broken wire,
got out a new nipple, and tried to start the blowlamp. I
had five matches left, and a gale was raging.
An hour or two later a shepherd person arrived, and
sold me a box of matches. I got the lamp roaring, and
thought I should soon be on the road again. Nobody had
warned me that it is wise to solder up the strands of a
Bowden wire before cutting it or threading it through a
nipple. My fingers were numb, and it is vastly to my
credit that at very long last I got that wire threaded
through the nipple and soldered up securely enough for
the brake to take me down the hills which separated me
from bed. But the Recording Angel must have an asbestos ledger if he really got down all my remarks during the
job. See illustration that follows...
By this time the rucksack was assuming quite absurd
dimensions, and it was a bright thought which suggested
that the local carpenter should build me a proper tool box,
secured by sheet iron clamps, to the top of the carrier.
Moreover, I had a birthday; and my latest flame had money.
Having been up in town for the season she presented me
with the best motor tool kit I have ever seen, fresh from
Dunhill. It consisted of a huge pigskin wallet, opening out to
4 feet by 1 foot, fitted with clips, containing some sixty
tools, all heavy implements of good quality. There were no
less than five files; and I believe that in the course of the next
two years every single tool in the case proved useful.
Today, some twenty-five years later, I have just sold
a last season machine, of which all the tools are still
virgin, excepting those used for decarbonization.
165
5. STANDS
V. STANDS
SOME of us restless journalists have lately been
en-gaged on a stunt in favour of easier engine starting ;
and not without reason. But common gratitude impels
me to own that the trade has accomplished great work in
this direction within my memory.
When I started motoring, there were no motor
cycles, so I most unwillingly drove a car. On entering the
garage, you opened the door of a louvred cupboard in
the boot of the coachwork, and with a sinking heart you
sighted a huge flywheel, resembling that of a good-sized
gas engine. It might be spoked, in which case it was
easier to pull round. It might have a solid disc, in which
case it was awkward to pull round, but couldn’t grab
you and haul you bodily into the gears to perish
vermilionly.
Seizing a wad of waste-one kept cotton waste in all
one’s pockets at this era-you wiped the oil off a portion
of the flywheel; cautiously “felt” the compression (if
any), and then pulled and pulled and pulled and When
motor cycles at last came in, I bought one with the slogan, “No more flywheel pulling!” My Boy Scout training
in observation had led me to mark the salient fact that
motor cycle engines had their flywheels covered up, so
that you couldn’t pull them.
For the benefit of a sheltered and cossetted generation of motor cyclists, let me describe the starting of my
first machine. It had no kick-starter. It had no clutch.
Therefore, you had either to start it in full riding kit
(which at this date implied (a) a full leather suit, or (b) a
coat of China goat skin over riding breeches and leather
gaiters, plus (c) a leather chauffeur’s cap with shiny
peak, without which nobody ever dreamt of taking the
road. It was admittedly possible to start the engine up in
ordinary clothes, stop it, don riding garb, and restart.
But without exaggeration we all hated stopping an engine
which had once started, because it was quite uncertain
whether or when it would restart. See illustration below..
166
5. STANDS
So we normally clad ourselves fully, in readiness to
avail ourselves of any temporary amiability on the part of
the engine ; and when the engine at last fired, we most
gratefully and instantly commenced our journey.
Ignitions at this date were far, far less reliable than
they are now, but they actually gave a better slow-speed
spark, and were seldom to blame for nonstartitis. There
were two chief culprits. No. 1 was the oil. I have no idea
who made it, or for what purpose, but its action in a
cold cylinder was a cross between acetylene welding and
seccotine. With liberal flushings of paraffin and much
leaping on the pedals, one might induce the piston to
creak a millimetre or so along its stroke. As the engine
could only be started by pedalling the entire machine
along the road, a free piston was an indispensable preliminary.
Why did we not run and jump? Well, I have a secret
belief that I invented this excellent form of starting. But
at the outset it simply wasn’t done. Remember that we
were all ex-cyclists. There were two standard methods
of starting push bikes. Under one system you straddled
the back wheel with the left boot on a step screwed to
the rear hub spindle. Under the other you pushed the
machine and trod on the pedal of the fixed gear as it
rose. My first motor bike had steps on both sides of its
back hub spindle, and I found the hop start exhausting
and undig-nified. It was so heavy to push that the pedal
method was a washout. So we straddled the bus,
brought one pedal to the top dead centre, trod that pedal
down, and, catching the other pedal with the other foot,
wobbled off, pedalling for dear life, with the compression tap open and squeaking piercingly. (The valve-lifter
had not yet been invented.)
Early Carburetters
The carburetter explained the need of these lengthy
pedallings. A typical example consisted of a small biscuit
box, built into the tank, traversed by a perforated tin air
tube, and fed with fresh fuel by a screw-down needle
valve communicating with the main tank. Unless one was
very cunning in using up the last drop on each run, the
next start had to be made on stale petrol; and even fresh
petrol did not vaporize too well unless it was (i) nicely
joggled about by the vibration of the motion of the machine, and (ii) warmed by the silencer, which was located
close to the carburetter for this express purpose. We
167
5. STANDS
soon learnt to frequent those hotels within our radius
which had been thoughtfully built on slopes ; and to
avoid those which adorned a flat stretch of road. With a
little ingenuity it was generally possible to locate stops
on a steep down gradient. The snag came when one
stayed the night anywhere, and had to store the machine
for the night on the flat in a standless world. I cannot
think any fen resident had the temerity to own a motor
cycle at this date, though he would score by not having
to ascend any hills.
As time passed we all grew very ingenious in rigging
up temporary stands when away from home. Two petrol
tins would serve in an emergency, the back wheel resting
its two hop-steps, one on each can. Better still were a
pair of packing cases, such as most garages or hotels
could produce in return for a pourboire.
At last a brilliant genius brought out a small triangular stand-carrier or steel rod, pivoted to clips which
bolted on to the rear forks. We ought to have erected a
monument to his memory, for he was one of our greatest
bene-factors, and I might never have lived to tell this tale
but for him, such toll did engine-starting take of the
heart-muscles in A.D. 1900. You cut two holes in the
back of your saddle, bought a small strap, swung the
stand up, fastened it to the saddle, and used the stand as
a carrier, when on tour. Of course, you had to stop the
engine in order to put the stand up, but at least you knew
that the engine was free, and that your silencer was frying
the petrol in the biscuit box before you attempted your
actual road start.
I tried one experimental stunt with this stand, when I
first bought it. I got two of them, and fixed one in the
,,
up “ position for road use. No. 2 I placed loosely on
the concrete floor of the garage, and put the machine on
it with the front wheel facing the open door. I then summoned my old Devonshire cook, who was a hefty person, scaling some sixteen stone. “When I give the word,
Hannah, you are to push with all your weight against my
shoulders.” Hannah agreed. In ten minutes or so the
engine started, and I gave the word. Hannah pushed with
a will. The machine and I dived headlong forward off the
stand, the back wheel, revving hard, bit the concrete
well, and my front wheel hit the doorpost, twisting round
at right angles, and fetching us all over on the hard floor.
168
5. STANDS
Short-Lived Bliss
The next invention stood to the credit of a person
called Price, if I remember aright. He evolved two dinky
little steel legs, one of which was hinged to special spring
brackets clipped to each chain stay, and arranged to lock
in two positions, up or down. This obviated the screaming drawbacks of the combined stand carrier. On the
latter you carried a spare accumulator, a case containing
your razor, toothbrush, and pyjamas, several spare belts,
and so forth. But the Price affair was a stand, and a
stand only. I bought one and rose gleefully for a full
week.
On the eighth day I was riding blithely along at about
18 m.p.h., which was a good cruising speed at this date.
Suddenly a curious jingling saluted my ears. I craned my
neck and peeped here and there without spotting any
thing. One of the serious effects of difficult starting was
that one never stopped except under sheer compulsion.
The jingling grew merrier and merrier, but still I could not
see anything adrift. I conceived serious intentions of
voluntarily stopping my engine-incredible temerity for
those days - when suddenly a fiendish scrunch saluted
my ears, immediately followed by a sound all too familiar
twenty-five years ago - the tinkle of disintegrated wheel
spokes on the ‘ard, ‘igh road. Simultaneously the machine pulled up in its tracks as the rear wheel wilted to
the contour of a huge egg. One leg of the Price stand
had skipped cheerfully along the near-side chain stay
until its bracket fouled the wheel and tore out all the
spokes on that side.
169
.. the tinkle of disintegrated wheel spokes
on the ‘ard, ‘igh road.
6. CARBURETTERS
VI. CARBURETTERS
THE other day I took a. 1924 machine into a garage, and
one of the local bloods begged a brief trip up the road. On his
return he enthused freely, but added, “Carburation a bit tricky,
isn’t it ?”
By modern standards it certainly was, as a director of the
firm owns a not too good carburetter, and insists on putting it
on all these buses. But in 1900 this defective vaporiser would
have been a positive godsend.
The crudest carburetter I ever owned consisted purely and
simply of a screw-down needle valve, which one adjusted to
trickle petrol into the inlet valve chamber. It died a natural death,
car and all, when the inlet valve stuck open and the entire fuel
tank blazed up. But the best vaporisers of that date were rather
childish. The best types took the form of a tank built in two
storeys. The bedroom was large and high, the ground floor was
small and shallow. The two chambers communicated by a
screwdown needle valve. You admitted petrol into the basement, guided by a float, the wire of which protruded through a
cap on the tank top. In the basement was an air pipe, freely
perforated. When the engine sucked, air bubbled up through the
petrol, which mingled with the vapour produced by road vibration swishing the fuel about in the basement, which was fitted
170
It died a natural death, car and all, when
the inlet valve stuck open and the
entire fuel tank blazed up.
6. CARBURETTERS
with baffle plates to annoy the petrol as much as possible and make it lively. Two small hand levers on the
tank top controlled the throttle and the air admission
respectively-they were known in print as the “twin tap.”
Of course, nothing but the best 0•680 sp. gr. petrol
would operate such a crude device, and on rough roads
the mixture always went west temporarily.
regular vendors anywhere, we used to drop stones into
our tanks to raise the level of the fuel over the holes in
the air pipe.
Starting up could also be the deuce and all on occasion. The best 0•680 spirit could get astonishingly flat
when the machine had been standing for several days
with plenty of air leaks in the surface carburetter. This
Momentary misfiring or engine stoppage over a
gadget held two or three pints, and no man could afford
pothole wouldn’t worry us today. But circa 1900 the
to drain the stale stuff away at a date when individual
rider was generally pretty busy in other directions. To
riders often covenanted personally with the oil syndibegin with, his machine was a first cousin of the giraffe. cates and the railway folk to get their own fuel down
The centre of gravity coincided with one’s tie pin, and
from town in wooden boxes or large circular drums.
holding the beastie up on grease was ever a real problem. Moreover, the functioning of the carburetter depended in
Then one hand was usually detailed to hold some item in part on the fact that the silencer was located close up
its place. Perhaps the accumulator; perhaps the head
underneath it, and the silencer was, of course, arctic in
lamp. The other hand being urgently required for steering temperature when one first started up each day.
purposes, a series of lightning dabs at the twin tap were
So you can picture me ‘holding a red-hot poker
the eternal rule, and their adjustment was quite as sensiagainst the silencer with one hand, and stirring up the
tive as the reaction of a Flewelling wireless set.
contents of the carburetter fiercely with an egg whisk
Is it in Aesop’s fables that the cat brought the milk
held in the other hand. Even thus, starting was apt to be
up to the top of a thin-necked jug by dropping pebbles
uncertain.
into the receptacle? Well, when our petrol supplies ran
low, as they often did at a date when there were no
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6. CARBURETTERS
A Real Carburetter
How I gloated when entering Gamage’s one day I
spotted a veritable spray carburetter, priced at 10s. 6d.
So far as I remember, it consisted of a float chamber, a
jet, a choke tube, and a butterfly throttle, thus giving “ an
incorrect mixture at all speeds,” which was a 1900
cynic’s definition of so-called automatic carburetters.
But as our engines were mostly designed to run at one
speed and one speed only, a lack of flexibility in the
carburetter was no real handicap. If one jammed one’s
handkerchief or cap in the air intake, this cheap little
vaporiser would always start the engine, and its single
lever control was a great joy. It had only one other defect, viz., that its float needle was made of some now
obsolete metal, which combined the appearance of brass
with the consistency of butter; and the point of the
needle would “shoulder” in ten miles and evaporate in
fifty. Attempts to grind it in rapidly reduced it to a
stump; and at last I took to carrying several spares in a
needle case presented by one of my flapper friends.
my heart to it on the spot, because it had a colossal fat
needle, weighing about half a pound. I brought many
tribulations on my pate by fitting this huge carburetter to
many engines in turn. In itself it was excellent, but its
weight used to break off the inlet pipe. On one occasion
it held me up for an hour; its annular float had been
soldered, and the mechanic in reassembling it forgot to
hitch the heavy needle over the levers which raised it; he
fancied that petrol would swim a solid half-pound of
brass; and not suspecting him of being such a fool, I
took everything else to pieces first. See below.
Not long afterwards Mr. Pearson, of Southsea,
introduced me to the current De Dion spray carburetter.
It was an enormous gasometer-like creation, but I lost
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6. CARBURETTERS
Then came a brief era in which the Werner Brothers,
of Paris, took undisputed station as the leading motor
cycle designers of the world. I bought their machine at
sight, chiefly attracted by a leather pulley with flat belt
drive, and humbugged by some highly unscientific
state-ments about coefficients of friction. It had a spray
carburetter, of course ; and they made a great talking
point of the fact that the carburetter was safely ensconced inside the tank, where dirt could neither choke
the jet nor silt up the gauze over the air intake. This
peculiar location excited nothing but admiration. We
already carried our batteries inside the tank, access being
furnished by a sliding panel in the tank side; and what
could be more excellent than to include another cupboard for the carburetter?
Unfortunately, the tank was made of very light sheet
tin, and the edges of the cupboard were left razor sharp.
Moreover, the carburetter gave any amount of trouble,
and as it was securely embedded inside this very tiny
cupboard, tools were operated with extreme difficulty
and danger; a pair of leather wristlets were necessary
wear for the job. I often wonder how they were assembled at the factory; probably they made the carburet-
ter first, and then built the tank round it.
At last Brown and Barlow entered the carburetter
industry and a great peace descended on this aspect of
motoring.
I Try a New One
As an inveterate experimenter, I was never satisfied
with what was familiar, no matter how good it was. Ere
long the Triumph people sent an experimental one-lever
vaporiser of their design, asking me to use it for a season
and report. It behaved quite nicely and, anon, I fitted it
when The Motor Cycle sent me North to report a Scottish trial. It fell on a day that we were traversing one of
those giant moors which deface the extreme North,
where the normal population consists exclusively of
stags and eagles. Further, it was raining in the wholehearted fashion characteristic of those latitudes; in other
words, one felt as if one was immediately below a great
dam which had burst.
My engine stopped. The miserable procession sped
past and I tinkered and searched, and ere long I concluded that my jet was stopped up. I wriggled the carbu-
173
retter off, and commenced to dismantle it. As the job
proceeded, something tinkled down into the flood which
marked where the road had once lain. I dived into the
yeasty waters and fished. At last the object was recovered, and proved to be the top half of the jet. Its lower
extremity had a somewhat irregular appearance, and my
horror-stricken eyes realized that I had ripped it clean in
half during dismantling. I thought intensely and fiercely.
Decided after much agony that there might still be two
men behind me - a rival pressman and a competitor who
had struck trouble soon after breakfast. The jet being
freakish in shape, I could not hope for a spare to fit; but
with luck I might get some sort of fine tube which I
could jam in position.
A Good Samaritan
The pressman appeared. “Got a spare jet?” I hailed
him, as he swished through the surface water. “Nope!”
he replied sourly, and disappeared. Anon came the last
competitor, and he ladled two or three assorted jets into
my eager hand before floundering onwards. After a solid
hour’s work, what with filing and hammering and caulking clearances with a compound of rubber solution and
6. CARBURETTERS
french chalk, I contrived to jam a jet of sorts more or
less into position. As the carburetter was automatic, and
demanded above all things a jet of precisely the right
height and delivery, my wade back to civilization on a
single geared machine over the mountains with the engine
firing anyhow was a nightmare. But I eventually reached
a cycle shop where I was able to remarry the divorced
portions of the original jet and proceed with the trial.
Reliability at Last
Since that date I do not think I have ever been
stalled with real mechanical trouble due to the carburetter. The punctured float occasionally assails us, of
course. We get our tanks filled up with water and eke
with paraffin, though the petrol pump system has largely
banished such catastrophes.
Ah! There is one more tragedy to be recorded,
though I was the sole culprit. The sun was shining brilliantly, and the surrounding landscape was so worthy of
admiration and study that I felt quite genial when a series
of spits and bangs indicated a partially choked jet. I spat
and banged up to the top of a rise whence a fine view
174
6. CARBURETTERS
could be guaranteed, propped the machine against a
convenient turf kerb, and sat down with my back against
a stone wall to clear the jet.
As I took each part out, I laid it on a nice clean
stone, pending reassembly. Having once stepped on a
float when it was out of the carburetter, I carefully placed
the float on the flat top of the wall above my head. The
jet being vetted clear at last, I commenced reassembly,
and anon stretched up rather a careless paw to reach
down the float from the top of the wall. I wasn’t looking
what I was doing, and a clumsy finger touched the float
over the far side of the wall. With a careless motor cycling oath I stood up to recover it. If our photographer
had been there to record my facial expression! On the
other side of the wall the ground sloped steeply to the
edge of a craggy precipice, and my float was nowhere to
be seen. I stripped off my overalls, and made a long
circuitous pilgrimage to the foot of the cliff, but never a
sign of my missing float could be found. Doubtless it
decorates some predatory jackdaw’s nest to this day. I
proceeded by the hoary method of adjusting the petrol
tap. Which is neither as easy nor as pleasant as it
sounds.
175
Doubtless it decorates some predatory
jackdaw’s nest to this day.
7. FOUR-WHEELERS
VII. FOUR-WHEELERS
MOST motor cyclists take at least a vicarious interest in cars, and some of the veterans may have their
memories stimulated if I, for once, refer to a few
pre-historic four wheelers which provided interludes in
the more acute misery of trying to keep two wheels
revolving.
Seen through the kindly haze of time, the outlines of
these vehicles are mistily indistinct, and only the major
agonies which they inflicted survive in one’s mind. The
great grandfather of them all was a 3-1/2 h.p. Benz,
which carried a horizontal single-cylinder engine of
colossal dimensions and Lilliputian efficiency in a sort of
drawer let into its tail.
The owner of this plutocratic monster was shortwinded, and I soon discovered why I received such
frequent invitations to Benz with him. The engine was
started by pulling round the flywheel. Being located in a
receptacle like the till of a small shop, and being normally
anointed with much oil, this flywheel was not too easily
pulled round; and when pulled, the engine seldom responded.
I soon discovered why I received such frequent
invitations to Benz with him.
If you got it going, your real troubles began. The
wheels of the car were some 40 inches in diameter, and
were adorned with pram tyres of solid rubber, secured
partly by cement and partly by internal wires. The cement melted and the wires snapped.
Early Belts
If a tyre came off, and one testily drove home on the
rim, innumerable spokes fell off, and the wheel presently
became egg-shaped. Still, it wasn’t my car.
176
7. FOUR-WHEELERS
all positions. I inserted myself vertically downwards into
the centre of the car, as a cork enters a bottle. I crawled
underneath its abdomen, and worked upwards, lying on
my back. I sat on the road at the side of the car with my
feet underneath it, and my tummy bent sharply over the
iron step. I never discovered a comfy way of doing it.
On this belt drive the gear ratio was about 6 to 1,
and the engine curled up at the least sign of a gradient.
Then some genius invented the Crypto gear, an epicyclic
two-speed, innocent of either lubrication or bearings.
Oil-less Gears
With this gear one could climb under power the first
.. the wheel presently became egg-shaped.
short hill encountered after buying the extra gear, though
The transmission was by flat belts over a series of
the speed literally did not exceed 3 m.p.h. By the summit
fast and loose pulleys, operated by a large wooden
the gear had probably melted or seized. You oiled it with
striking lever and fork. We motor cyclists know somea teaspoon. You spent precious water from the engine
thing of belts, but our worst belts in the past were at
(which had no radiator whatsoever) in trying to cool it.
least acces-sible. I can assure all and sundry that a belt
You took it to pieces, and anon deliberately lost bits of it
on a car is calculated to drive the coolest and most
in the grass, because you could not remember where
saintly man into furies compared with which the roars of they went, and dreaded that the owner might insist on the
a tigress robbed of its cubs are as the bleatings of a
gear being dismantled all over again if there were some
frightened lamb. This belt had a laced joint. I tackled it in pieces left over at the finish. See illustration over.
177
7. FOUR-WHEELERS
At intervals along the horizontal tiller were set tiny
wooden levers, controlling ignition, gas, gears, brakes
and other things. All the weight being well astern, this
contraption normally took the road like a racing hydroplane in the bay at Monaco; that is to say, only a tiny arc
located at about seven o’clock on the rear tyres ever
made contact with the road, the front wheels being high
in the air, especially over bumps or whenever the small,
fierce clutch was let in. Result - she was quite
unsteerable; and as one finger at least of your steering
hand was tickling some of the serried levers on the tiller,
frightful things used to happen. See below.
You took it to pieces, and anon deliberately
lost bits of it in the grass.
The next four-wheeler which I remember was called
a Eureka phaeton. Its stern portion consisted of a small
hard bench for two, under which was an engine and gear
and axle of sorts. Far out in front were two cycle wheels,
each carried in a front fork, the forks being joined together by 1/8-in. steel rods. From one of the forks a
long, horizontal steering tiller ran backwards, ornamented
with a vertical 3-in. grip at its tail end. By this you
steered.
178
7. FOUR-WHEELERS
After we had capsized her six times, we found a
kind home for her with a stranger a long way off, and
bought a 3 h.p. De Dion voiturette. This clever little car
was the real grandmother of motoring in this country,
being the first usable four-wheeler ever imported. It was
quaint to a degree. It had the usual “single phaeton” back
seat for two - no hood, no screen, no doors. Where the
bonnet and screen ought to have been, there was a
rummy little erection, a sort of hybrid between a prieDieu and a hassock, on which a third passenger was
seated facing backwards; he formed a useful buffer in
collisions.
spokes of the back wheel by about bin. These spokes
were close-set and heavily dished - we had no screwdriver long enough to reach the part.
The draggled trio sat round the back wheel and
glared at the contact breaker for upwards of an hour. We
finally cut a spoke out of a front wheel, started a fire with
gorse, heated the spoke, hammered and filed it into a
turnscrew, mounted it in a file handle, adjusted the contact breaker, and drove home. Britons can’t be beat.
Ever after, we carried a push bike slung on the tail of the
car, and oftentimes it proved a very present help in
trouble. See illustration below..
A Tragedy of Inaccessibility
The engine was accessibly located behind the nearside back wheel. Thereby hangs a tragedy. The car had
not been in our hands many weeks before we went to a
dance on it. Returning over a bleak moor at 4 a.m., the
car stopped. By 7 a.m. three very draggled men in
soiled and tumbled evening dress had actually tracked
the fault to its lair. The platinum screw of the contact
breaker ‘had slacked back from the blade. This device
was mounted on the crank case, and cleared the wire
179
If we could resurrect the cars which followed the 31/2 h.p. De Dion, they would scandalize the present
generation in two chief respects, apart from their quaint
and appalling appearance. They were as innocent of
tickover as a bad motor bike handled by a clumsy
owner. Only a year or two removed from the era of the
single-speed engine, devoid of a throttle, and controlled
solely by changing gears, they rattled and clattered at
very nearly maximum r.p.m. when they were “standing
still”; of course, they never really “stood still” - they
quivered and shook spasmodically, like the Emperor in
San Toy when the lovely girl danced before him ; and
one dare not switch them off, for restarting might occupy hours.
Their second peculiarity was that when the best
driver took them off from rest, the front wheels raised
themselves bodily off the road, and anon descended
again with a little thump; if the driver were not expert the
engine simultaneously stopped. It follows that to start a
car in the presence of ladies was a fierce trial of one’s
self-control.
But ere long the coachwork became superb. The
fashionable body of the day was known as a Roi des
7. FOUR-WHEELERS
Belges tulip. All four seats were separate fauteuils, with
their backs curved like the petals of a flower; my own
sample had green panels, picked out with black and
white lines, and it was upholstered in buttoned vermilion.
One entered the rear cockpit - known as a “tonneau” by a tiny gangway oetween the two back seats, terminating in a door and a small cast-iron step. When one reversed too hastily, this step took the brunt. It was a
formidable weapon with a fierce clutch behind it, and on
one occasion I brought down the best part of a friend’s
brick wall with it.
The prevalence of French words and French engines at this date indicates how little we in England knew
about motoring, but before long ardent souls on this side
the Channel began to build cars. My ever-patriotic heart
mastered my judgment, and I purchased. I will not name
the maker. He is still in business, and has doubtless
repented. I need only say that his frame was about as
rigid as four strips of Meccano, laid flat-side upwards,
and bolted together at the four corners. In spite of this,
he carried his crankshaft across the frame, in two brass
castings, suitably drilled, and bolted to convenient holes.
Except when the road was dead smooth, and the only
180
7. FOUR-WHEELERS
frame movement consisted of the natural wave of the
thin side members, the crankshafts always bound; and if
one wheel on one side was perceptibly higher than the
other three wheels, the crankshaft practically jammed in
these bearings. That is, until they had time to wear, which
was not very long. So one spent an awful lot of time with
a large can of grease and a wooden kitchen spoon, trying
to plaster blobs of grease into the aforesaid brass cast-
one spent an awful lot of time with a large can of
grease and a wooden kitchen spoon,
ings. Even when the date is taken into consideration, it
was certainly a rank bad car.
It is always an open question in my mind which type
of motor vehicle skidded worst. Today one occasionally
hears that it is impossible to hold a modern car or cycle
on certain stretches of patent road surface with which
certain surveyors have experimented. But in the early
days of motoring it was really impossible to hold any
motor over ordinarily bad grease. Motor bicycles were
like camels, except that their centres of gravity were far
higher than any camel’s. Imagine a 28in. frame, a snatchy
drive, and your engine mounted on a carrier above the
front wheel. Picture such a mount in the Euston Road
when a November fog had filmed the paving with a thin,
glutinous smear!
Three-wheelers were worse. I have made five or six
efforts to force a three-wheeler, dated about 1900, to
cross the tramlines near the Oval Station in November;
every time it has sheared right round and gone back
again, whilst the hansom cabbies and growlers paused to
jeer. But a few selected cars inspired an even more profound sense of helplessness.
181
7. FOUR-WHEELERS
Brixton Road, when a spot of rain would fall or she
would get one of her half-inch back tyres well home in a
tramline. Pst! Before you could say - well, what one
would say - she would go into a spin, and when she
would come out of it, or where she would be when she
did, were matters entirely outside your control. I have
recovered consciousness to find her caressingly leaning
against a horsed ‘bus, or with her shoulder through a
shop window, or lying on her side across the tram conduit with every prospect of a chain dropping through the
slot and electrocuting me.
efforts to force a three-wheeler ..
to cross the tramlines
Time was when I drove the first voiturette ever
turned out by the now famous house of Renault. Time
may have distorted my memories, and I cannot have set
eyes on a sister car for at least twenty years. But I am
prepared to take a solemn affidavit that this unspeakable
car was 5ft. wide, 5ft. long, and 5ft. high. It certainly
approached a true cube more nearly than any other
vehicle I have ever seen. You know how a Columbine in
a pantomime eyes Harlequin coquettishly, extends her
sinuous arms horizontally, and goes into a spin? Well,
that little Renault would be chugging peacefully down the
Chitty-Bang-Bang of Long Ago
But the world’s worst drive came on an occasion
when I truly expected to enjoy myself. A rich pal had just
bought the Chitty-Bang-Bang of those days. I rather
fancy it was a 100 h.p. De Dietrich, which had recently
won some big Continental race. Anyhow, he was unable
to fetch it home, and he asked me to collect it from the
London concessionaire’s, and take it home to his place
in Kent. Not knowing that all South London was “ up “
for the electrification of the tramways or something, I
rashly consented.
182
7. FOUR-WHEELERS
At the De Dietrich depot I was rather subdued to see
The sequel proved quite expensive for my friend the
three gigantic French mechanics trying to start the engine owner. For when, in the grey dawn, I finally extricated.
with an implement resembling the sort of jemmy with
the De Dietrich from South London, I was pinched for
which cracksmen used to burgle bank strong rooms
speeding. Ah, well!
before the acetylene blowpipe was invented. However,
the manager assured me that she was a perfect lamb
when she was once warmed up. By some miracle I
reached the south of the Thames without incident.
Somewhere about Camberwell I collected a rather
tipsy coster - a bruiser from his looks and muscle. I
thrust a golden sovereign into his enormous paw, and
implored him to come with me and see life. Armed with
the jemmy, he proved invaluable for an hour, during
which we covered perhaps three-quarters of a mile with
frequent stops and restarts, the bruiser operating the
jemmy on my crankshaft with a skill which created sinister suspicions about his spare-time avocation. But somewhere in Peckham the De Dietrich back-fired fired just
when he was pressing down his fourteen stone most
manfully.
Armed with the jemmy, he proved invaluable
The radiator filler cap had caught him one on the
for an hour,
point of the jaw. But I think it was the kick in the stomach administered by the jemmy which laid him out.
183
8. TRICYCLES
VIII. TRICYCLES
AS the motor tricycle is entirely defunct, we sometimes forget that it was easily the first roadworthy motor
cycle.
My own acquaintance with it had not begun in those
strenuous times, when its engine was rated at 1 h.p., and
when it was no uncommon occurrence for a rider to
pedal continuously on the level, its sole attraction being
that you had to use your legs less energetically than if
you dispensed with an engine altogether. Neither did I
own a machine in those stirring days, when ignition was
effected by a platinum tube threaded through the wall of
the com-bustion chamber, and heated externally by a
petrol lamp, so that the inner red-hot extremity provided
permanent pre-ignition.
On rare occasions rich friends gave me a joy-ride on
such a mount, but, eager as I was, I accepted the gift
warily. You see, a cross wind was apt to extinguish the
petrol lamp, but the hot surroundings continued to draw
fluid out of the burner tank, which was sometimes of the
pressure type. When you struck a match to relight the
burner, all this wet petrol flared up, the machine was
destroyed instanter, and your altruistic pal touched you
for £8o or so, which he applied to the purchase of a
machine with electric ignition. Heaven is always just, and
the primitive electric ignition generally revenged you for
the swindle of which you had been the artless victim. But
£8o was a lot to pay for one brief swank up the road on
a motor tricycle.
When I rose to the motor-owning class, the weakest
trike was rated at 1-1/2 h.p., and would genuinely run at
about 14 m.p.h. along the level with modest reliability.
Memory still recalls the sensation. What with horses
which pardonably mistook one for a fiend escaped from
some equine hell, police bristling in every whisker, and
horsey interests bursting with honest British prejudice, it
was wise to restrict one’s self to five or six miles an hour
so long as any member of the public loomed above the
horizon. Irregular ignition, carburation of the “if” type,
and an engine totally innocent of balance-the machine
proceeded in a series of picturesque jerks, which can
only be reconstructed nowadays by running a
four-cylinder engine on one cylinder, with the brakes
hard on and several teeth out of the crown wheel. The
progress of a tipsy man walking barefoot over broken
184
8. TRICYCLES
bottles would be smooth and direct by comparison.
Crude Transmissions
You must also add to this jerky progression an
unparal-leled uproar. A small spur wheel on the crankshaft was geared direct to a large spur wheel on the back
axle. Both wheels were originally untrue, and had probably run in a state of complete nudity for several hundred
miles, during which grit and dust and small stones had
reduced their original contours to the resemblance of a
pencil after little Percy had sharpened it with his first
knife. A threshing machine was quiet compared to such
gearing, and there was certainly no need to carry a
hooter. In broad, flat valleys one became audible long
before the machine topped the skyline, and the local
cattle began to prepare for action when the tricycle was a
solid mile away.
Roads, of course, were comparatively good, which
might have atoned for the intrinsic shortcomings of a
rigid fork if the machine had possessed the least pretence of balance. But it had none. The front wheel carried its own weight, the fork, and about a third of the
diamond frame, which was usually an open panel. The
rear wheels, with their heavy axle and bridge, bore the
rider, the rear frame, the engine, the gearing, the tanks,
the cells, and the coil. If the bus scaled 1-1/2 cwt. (I
have no record of actual weight) the front wheel probably took 18 lb. and the rear wheel 150 lb. plus my 14
stone. So at speed any wee hump in the road flung the
front wheel up, and the trike tried to fall over backwards
like a rearing horse.
A ride was one succession of Ballig Bridge effects. I
soon learnt this. A small boy implored me to take him
out as a pillion passenger. Easily done, as the axle bridge
furnished an excellent stance for his feet, and he could
stand erect with his arms round my neck or his hands on
my shoulders. All went well on the level, except that the
front wheel felt more lifty than usual, and I had to bend
well forward.
185
All went
well on the
level,
8. TRICYCLES
Presently we essayed a steepish grade. As the engine
plunked to an inevitable conk when my tired ankles
ceased to twinkle round, young Cecil prepared to dismount. The centre of gravity shifted rearwards at speed,
and the front wheel reared up at my nose. We assumed a
three-ply order astern on the road. The order of the
layers was: 1, Cecil; 2, me; 3, the tricycle. Fortunately,
nothing caught fire.
The order of the
layers was:
1, Cecil;
2, me;
3, the tricycle
In one small matter manufacturers were extremely
generous at this date, viz., low-tension wire. Different
ideals prevail today, when electricity is reliable, and its
devious paths are hidden. At this era it was deliriously
uncertain, and its paths had to be advertised. So literally
yards of rusty black insulated flex were festooned about
the machine. There was a dry cell slung from the top
tube. A rotable grip control switch on the handle-bar. A
coil on the axle bridge. A lever-operated contact breaker
on the engine, low down astern. Some four yards of wire
were strictly essential. We probably received more like
fourteen yards, it being the custom to curl it like a valve
spring. In use the wire shrunk. It broke, or charred, or
perished, or caught on your waistcoat buttons, or got
oil-soaked, or chafed through at the point where it
passed through a sharp-edged hole in a tin accumu-lator
case. Each new joint or repair shortened it an inch or so.
Ignition Spares
The wiring was most ingeniously arranged for the
pur-poses of diagnosis. All canny riders stored a large
hank of spare wire in their pocketss or toolbags. When
an ignition problem baffled us, we removed each sepa-
186
8. TRICYCLES
rate wire, one at a time, inserted a fresh piece from the
spare hank, and tried the engine. The really posh merchants carried a voltmeter or a glow lamp, and tested for
currents between every pair of binding screws (as we
then christened the terminals). For myself I eschewed
this method; if I got a glow or four volts registered
between the positive of the switch and the negative of the
coil, I did not know whether it ought to have been there
or not. So, swopping new wires for old paid me better, if
it was a trifle unintelligent.
At this time I got bitten with a fresh De Dion stunt,
the water-cooled head. Our weakness on hills was alleged to be due to overheating-no doubt considerable
distortion actually occurred. So the French firm added a
water-cooled head. The necessary water was carried in a
tank behind the saddle. I finally became the proud owner
of a French tricycle with a huge cylindrical threecompart-ment tank mounted behind the saddle. It had
separate receptacles for oil, petrol, and water. Originally
it had no radiator, but I soon found one was needed, and
added a dozen feet of square-gilled tubing under the
contraption, which then resembled a nickelled Ewart
A Sturdy Job
geyser laid on its side. Incidentally, the intrinsically bad
The utter misbalancing of the De Dion machines was
balance of such a tail-heavy bus was not improved by
presently grasped by the genius who presided over the
this tank.
Ariel works, and anon he brought out a really good solo
tricycle. The cycle portions were built on the best British
Early Gear Boxes
lines, and the gears were cut really true of good stuff.
But best of all, the engine was mounted forward of the
Unfortunately, these French machines were disfigrear axle instead of behind it, and the power was consid- ured by two-speed gears. There were two popular
erably increased. Some of these machines did yeoman
makes-the Dupont and the Bozier. I have forgotten how
service in hilly districts for many a long year, and I dare
they worked, and I sometimes think that their main funcsay one or two are running yet.
tion was to serve as brakes. Anyhow, no modern front
wheel system on cars procured anything like the instanta187
8. TRICYCLES
neous deceleration which occurred when one threw in
low gear. The friction must have been frightful. And the
scrunch-ing ! A practised ear could probaby detect that
low gear was in action two miles away. There was a
clutch of sorts operated by a fork. And the forks used to
drop off with sickening frequency. At least from the
Dupont model. The motoring world was sharply split
into -pro-Boziers and pro-Duponts. The first gear I
bought was a Dupont. I never tested the Bozier. By the
time I got rid of the Dupont I was hopelessly insolvent.
I Experiment Still Further
Prosperity returning, I ordered what ranked as the
Brough Superior of those days-to wit, a Dennis Speed
King, built by the well-known Guildford firm. Its
de-signer was a psychologist of the first water. Not only
did this unquestionably handsome mount display far
more nickel than any rival, but it had polished aluminium
mudguards. It treated me fairly’ well on the whole.
Then the dual-purpose machine craze dawned. All
motorists were youngsters. No elderly man could produce the optimism demanded of motorists at this date.
No ageing heart or muscles could long withstand the
physical drain of getting them along the road. Now every
youngster has a girl. Possibly several girls. So extra
seating was desirable. But since the wise youngster
carefully segregates his various girls, only one extra seat
was called for. This was easily provided by taking out
the front wheel; substituting a two-wheeled front axle,
held to the chassis by two stays to the steering head, and
two more to the rear axle. Direct steering was linked up
to the front fork, and a chair of sorts was slung in front
by Cee springs. Behold the quadricycle
What little air had formerly reached the engine at the
stern was now finally shut off. So the poor engine
glowed in a pocket of warm, hot air. Nor was that my
only trouble. Through a long eighteen months I tuned
and tuned and tuned, but never got the ordinary results.
Enlightenment came at long last one night on a lonesome
moor. My automatic inlet valve dissolved into two component parts, a head and a stem, and did in the piston.
There was a flaw where the head joined the stem.
188
8. TRICYCLES
One on “Portsmouth Jones”
wheel. He had ridden quite a number of miles on the
naked rim in sublime ignorance of the fact. It only shows
Here I must really break off to tell a yarn against
somebody else. He is still living, so I suppress his name; how those old tricycles used to bump.
but he was a great man in the motor cycling world up to
the war. Proud of his veterancy, he insisted on riding an
old Ariel trike, long after good motor cycles had come
into being. He even used to frequent big competitions on
this, and stoutly aver that it was better and more
com-fortable than any modem introduction. One day the
big noises of the motor cycling world were massed at a
hill-top in readiness for the competitors in an A.C.U. Six
Days. A frightful uproar was heard approaching.
“That must be “Portsmouth Road’ Jones,” averred
the Sherlock Holmes of the party, giving our hero the
proud name he had earned in cycling days.
As Jones hove in sight we espied a curious flappy
appearance about his antique tricycle, something like
Joyce bringing the 100 m.p.h. A.C. into the pits at
Brooklands. Behind Jones rode a clump of motor cyclists, bowed over their handle-bars in paroxysms of
glee. One of “Ports-mouth Road’s” rear tyres had come
off the rim, and flopped itself on to the axle inside the
189
9. LAMPS
IX. LAMPS
THE modern motor cyclist who is dissatisfied with
his expensive umpteen hundred feet beam gas head lamp
and yearns for some dynamo outfit should have taken up
the sport in the late ‘nineties.
At that era no motor cycle lamps existed. Motor
cycles were delivered with a filigree steel lamp bracket of
L shape incorporated in the steering head. On this weak
and treacherous support you affixed a push bike lamp.
An earnest agent positively supplied my first new machine with a cycle oil lamp. Wick, 5/8-in. wide. Illumination, two glow-worm power. On the first night ride I
covered two miles when the spring hinge snapped, and
the pendulous lamp dangled noisily round the fork,
wasting its faint yellow
glow on the spoon
brake above the front
tyre. I completed the
ride grasping that lamp
with as many of the
fingers of my right hand
as were not required to
hold the handlebar.
I bought a better lamp, which was made by Lucas,
and boasted a 1-in. wick; and would add that climbing
Devonshire hills on a single gear with if (nominal - very
nominal) horse power behind such a lamp was rather like
navigating the Channel at 30 knots in a destroyer with all
lights out in 1918. But I soon found that the perpetual
jogging of a rigid fork and un-balanced balanced engine
jumped all the oil out of the reservoir. The wick would
turn peevish when the last drop of oil disappeared. The
faint yellow glow ahead would shrink to a still fainter red
glow, and a most appalling smell would salute my nostrils as the wick burnt rapidly away. At the next cottage I
would get neat paraffin. Paraffin, burnt in a draught
without a chimney, is known to create the minimum of
light and the maximum of aroma. So I next bought a
candle lamp.
I loved that little candle lamp for a whole evening. It
emitted no smell, it sprayed no oil dew backwards over
my heather stockings, it burnt with a clear, bright light
resembling that of my conscience, and if the illumination
was a trifle futile, at least it was always there. Next
evening I relit my candle lamp, and prepared to enjoy
life. In half a mile or so the lamp went out. I examined it
190
9. LAMPS
by the twinkling stars, and found the candle hermetically
soldered into its spring telescope by the accumulated
wax melted on the previous evening.
Araminta Waits
If I had been clever, I should merely have pressed
the candle-holder against the still opalescent cylinder of
my engine ; there would have been a loud and instantaneous “plop!” as the released candle flew to the top of
its travel; and another five minutes would have seen the
waiting Araminta clinging to my manly bosom. But I was
always slow-witted. So first of all, I used all my matches
in trying to warm the holder without success. Then I
removed the bottom cap, discovered with glee that my
tyre inflator was of the right bore, stuck the inflator into
the holder, as a drift to shift the candle, and hammered
the inflator with my largest spanner. The inflator split
from end to end, and the candle stayed put. I believe that
an hour later I danced on the brutal thing, and finally
hurled it and some of my tools over the hedges. Anyhow, I know that I drove without a lamp of any sort for
the rest of the journey, and that Araminta was never the
same to me again.
I am not quite sure when gas lamps were first introduced for push bikes, but I first encountered them seriously about 1901. My first experiments were not encouraging.
No. 1 dissolved in a sheet of flame. See below.
No. 2 fell to pieces. No. 3 was a Lucas, not much
unlike those which this excellent firm still markets for
pedallists. As a pedal cycle lamp it was really good. Or
would have been, if there had been anybody to tell me
how to manage the water drip. As it was, I turned on a
little water and waited for the smell which never came.
191
9. LAMPS
Then I turned on a lot of
water, rejoiced in the smell,
singed my eyebrows in igniting
the colossal rush of gas,
waited till the fireworks exhibition had subsided, and took
the road. Presently the light
would get less and less, and I
would discover enormous
carbon crusts on top of the
microscopic burner. I would
examine the interior and find it
full of a sort of grey gruel. >>>
Refilling, I would repeat the manceuvre with rather
less water. This time the lamp would burn well, but one
eye of the burner would be choked. Perhaps it was the
front eye, in which case the glass would suddenly crack
and fall into the road. Perhaps it was the back eye, in
which case the reflector would come unsoldered. But
one never learnt to manage the water drip, because the
spring back always collapsed, just as daylight was dawning in one’s bemused brain. Believe it or not, but I and
most of my pals used to carry a cycle oil lamp in haver-
sacks over our shoulders or boxes on our carriers, as a
reserve to the untrustworthy gas lamps of the day.
Occasionally, there were small variations in the
programme. The commonest was for the lamp-bracket
of the motor cycle to snap before the spring back of the
lamp gave way. These brackets were light stampings
designed for push bikes, and they disliked both the
weight of our super lamps and the shocks which our
rigid forks administered at motor cycling speeds.
A little comparative peace descended when I at last
learnt:
(1) how to manage a water drip;
(2) that Lucas lamps were the best made;
(3) that a square block of wood, thrust inside the spring
back and well wired home, would hold the lamp up
when the springs broke.
But night joy came from Germany. Some philanthropist named Schmidt invented a solid little self-contained
gas lamp minus any spring back, and fitted with two
stout prongs and a pair of sturdy handle-bar clips. When
I came to know this lamp well, I positively ventured to
leave my oil lamp at home.
192
An Electrical Monstrosity
Trouble was reborn when the paper advantages of
electricity were brought to my notice. I will not name the
great firm which was responsible, as it has long ago
repented in sackcloth and ashes. It sent me, free, gratis
and for nothing, a large black metal ark, stove-enamelled
and bearing its transfer. It was designed to be lashed by
metal clips and leather straps to my carrier. Inside - it
there was a compartment for extra tools; a compartment
to hold four separate 4-volt accumulators of 20-amperehours apiece ; and a tail-piece with opal regis-tration
numbers and a ruby tail lamp, the latter a magnificent
work of supererogation, since the law made no such
demand. Switches galore garnished its inside, and out of
the tangle of wires two led forwards to a neat little head
lamp resembling a silvered egg cut in half.
Twenty years of technical journalism had not then
taught me to look a gift horse in the mouth even more
closely than one looks a bought horse. I accepted this
monstrosity with youthful transport and lashed it to my
carrier. Thus commenced a genuine Odyssey. I hardly
know where to begin the telling of it. The carrier collapsed under this awful load - that was probably the first
9. LAMPS
tragedy; and I still remember the blacksmith who built
me a new carrier, and how, as we surveyed his solid
handiwork together, he threw a chest and opined, “That
won’t never break, sir!” No more it did; when I last saw
it, it was supporting a full-size grindstone. But it broke
the chain stays. That was later. The next problem was to
get the straps tight. The contraption probably weighed a
good 40-lb., and two light straps passed through brazed
wire cleats were inadequate to damp its antics.
One Thing after Another
As I rode along, I was conscious of this huge metal
portmanteau bouncing on the carrier astern, and I felt
just like an army mule when a mountain gun comes adrift
on its funny-bone. The cleats fell off, and the straps tore,
but finally we got it tolerably secure. By this time the
accumulators were beginning to feel the strain. Not being
designed for motor work - we had no invulnerable Ni-Fe
cells then - each cell gradually filled up with a sludge of
paste dislodged from the plates, and they shorted. True,
there were four sets; if four sounds an enormous provision, remember that the quartette consisted of one ignition cell, one spare ditto, one lamp cell, one spare ditto.
193
So the reserve for night riding was not excessive. Especially when three of the cells shorted internally simultaneously, as occurred more than once.
The next outstanding item was the fracture of the short
and outraged strap which secured the fore rim of the carrier
to a slot cut in the rear edge of the saddle. The carrier then
pivoted at speed backwards round the rear spindle, and the
tail end of the portmanteau hit the road a fearful wump. Its
piano hinge flew out, and a perfect fountain of accumulators
sprayed out in graceful parabolas, fetching up short as they
drew their wires taut. In course of the aforesaid wump the
opal number plate and tail lamp met their latter end, and for
the first time I nourished vile dreams of consigning my most
prized accessory to the scrap heap. Later that day, still
seated on the road, still endeavouring with a fundamentally non-electric brain to find one cell with some juice in
it, and eke to decide which wires in the tangle led to the
contact breaker and which to the head lamp, my dream
hardened into decision. When I got home, I flung that
black metal portmanteau into a disused quarry which my
household used as an ash-pit. It is well I did; for another
month of that contraption would have cured my motor
cycling fever for ever.
9. LAMPS
Better Days
For long years after that I knew peace. Really good
acetylene lamps had begun to make their appearance. Occasions there have certainly been when I have found my generator waterless on some houseless stretch; and filling a
generator by immersing it in a stream is a slow job. In December it is also a cold job. I have also found myself minus
carbide, and had to wait for a cyclist to pass.
I have also found my one and only burner stuffed up
and I do not know whether there is a worse job in the universe than trying to blow a burner clear with an inflator
which does not fit, or trying to reamer it with a strand of
Bowden wire pinched off the valve lifter cable. But, broadly
speaking, since 1910 or so gas lamps have been good, if
used wisely.
..found my one and
only burner
stuffed up..
194
9. LAMPS
Later on, a second electric era began to dawn, and my
nocturnal sufferings recommenced. Bad batteries and worse
dynamo drives were the rule for a year or two. The cells
were usually ridiculously tiny, and there was nothing to show
whether the dynamo was actually charging or not. One
would start after dusk to ride from, let us say, London to
Bristol. Wriggling out through ‘the crowded suburbs, one
would rejoice in a beam which seemed a quarter of a mile
long, and picture in fancy the speed to be indulged in half an
hour later. Along the penultimate tramline that joyous beam
would begin to contract incredibly. Towards the verge of the
last suburb there would be no beam left, and a prehensile
neck, twisted forwards and round to the front of the lamp,
would confirm the horrid suspicion - the filament had turned
into dull emitter, as the wireless men happily term it.
.. a prehensile neck,
twisted forwards and
round to the front of
the lamp ..
Plonk went the brake, and investigation would show
that the belt had dropped off the dynamo in Hyde Park,
or that the small rubber friction wheel which worked
against the belt rim had peeled off all its rubber. So one
hastily put up at the “Pint and Cockchafer,” or whatever
loathly little beer-house would reduce the inevitable push
to the fewest yards. Next morning one’s pen scarified
the paper, and the inventor sent you down another rubber friction wheel or a new belt, as the case might be.
And still the microscopic battery joggled freely up and
down in its tiny little tin test-tube-of-a-case, and played
its worst pranks at the most awkward moments.
Still, in their sprightliest moods, the modern electric
installation can never hit you quite so hard as the prehistoric lamps of earlier eras. For today trouble with the
motor cycle need not be taken into account. It simply
does not happen. But in the ‘nineties and early days of
the twentieth century, the chief purpose of a lamp was
NOT - as the salad innocent might suppose - to illuminate the road. It was rather to illuminate the MACHINE,
when -the latter misbehaved, as it inevitably did by night
as by day. The more vulnerable elements of the motor
cycle of those days were housed inside the tank, where
195
9. LAMPS
the coil and accumulator lived amidst a maze of shabby,
emaciated black wires, resembling Lilliputian duplicas of
the charred sausages served at the baser type of slum
eating-house. Plenty of light was needed to investigate
these mysteries; and without light it was unsafe to proceed.
In good weather I bothered very little about lighting
up the road. I lived in a county where police were few,
and mostly my personal friends. Traffic was scarce.
And What Became of It
At last our A.M.I.M.E. grew desperate. “I will convert this blamed switch,” quoth he, “ till it can safely be
rotated to either hand.” Like staunch friends we collected
in a respectful circle to watch the conversion. His deft
hands withdrew a bolt here and a stud there, till the den
of mystery began to gape. Just so did Howard Carter
feel when his pickaxe pulled the first shard out of the
wall which sealed Tutsnkhamen’s tomb. But the sequel
was less happy. There was a loud spanging noise.
Myriad of little screws and springs and contact blades
A Wonderful Switch
dispersed themselves like slivers of high-explosive shell
In the modern era the chief tragedy in my memory
to the four corners of the workshop. Like all clever
befell a pal who was a fine amateur mechanic. His elecamateur mechanics, my pal had collected an astounding
tric installation included a huge rotary switch, ostentacollection of junk. In the course of the centuries it had
tiously labelled with the legend that it must on no account be rotated other than clockwise. This construction grown dusty. Grime-streaked and perspiring, we counted
the collection two hours later. By no feat of genius or
betrayed its designer’s crass ignorance of psychology.
Whenever the machine took a lonely rest at the kerbside, imagination could the resulting parts be stretched to.
form a switch. He ripped the one sad remnant - an amorsome small boy would spot the legend, and investigate
its truth by forcibly rotating the switch anti-clockwise. It phous casing - off the machine, and anon constructed a
would then jam, and when its returning owner discovered new, smaller, and simpler switch, which bore no legend,
and would turn both ways. On which note of triumph
the catastrophe, a heavy repair bill followed from the
and hope I close my mournful tale.
parent factory.
196
10. REPAIRS
X. REPAIRS
ONCE owned a country cottage with a well which
ran dry every summer.
This was supplemented by an immense subterranean
rain-water tank with concrete lining. One summer a
drought came, the well ran dry, and we resorted to the
rain-water tank. It contained just two inches of slime. So
I sent an S.O.S. to the local handyman, who pronounced
that the concrete lining was defective, spent two days
underground in the slime, and sent in a bill for £8. We
got through that year’s drought somehow, and when the
next summer grew arid, I revelled in the thought that my
large tank was as tight as a drum. But, alas 1 when we
began to draw on it, all it contained was one inch of
slime. This time I firmly made a personal inspection.
Nothing had ever been the matter, except that a dead rat
was wedged with leaves in the inlet pipe.
Repair Shop Fortunes
This small experience of the ways of the less intelligent type of professional man explains why motor cycle
repairs used to cost us such a fortune in the early days. I
have just unearthed my first repair bill (for over £40)
from a local garage. It is dated 1902, and the most frequent item is - I will give anybody a thousand guesses-”
to grinding in carburetter needle valve, 7s. 6d.” In this
connection I make two pungent remarks. First, it is
extremely doubtful whether that needle valve developed a
shoulder every three days, as the bill suggests; secondly,
if it did, no sane repairer would grind it, a new part of
better stuff being loudly indicated. But I was ignorant.
The repairer was either ignorant or a rogue (probably
both). And that’s that.
The secret history of that machine is that its valves
were made of putty and its piston rings of cream cheese.
Consequently, it never ran decently. When it baffled me,
I pedalled it round to Sharkey and Fleece, who were also
baffled. They rode it up and down the road, and noticed
that the carburetter dripped. How could the poor carburetter help dripping when an engine, devoid of balance
and lightly clipped to a remarkably whippy-frame, was
bouncing a light float violently up and down? So they
made a nice, regular income at my expense.
197
10. REPAIRS
Queer Repairs
The other items will sound strange to youthful. ears.
Straightening the pedals “ was a heavy debit. The
neighbourhood was hilly and greaseful. The machine had
just one gear. To suit my lanky limbs, it had been specially constructed with a z8in. frame (all the best makers
offered frames ranging from 22in. to 3oin. in those days,
as a good pedalling position was the most vital element
in design). On a greasy corner the outfit was probably
less stable than the old “ penny-farthing “ type of push
bike, for the belt had to be as tight as a towing hawser to
grip at all, and the smooth back tyre used to “ snatch “
abominably, while the centre of gravity was, perhaps, aft.
above the road.
Once the pedals were bent in a tumble, engine starting became a fierce problem. There was, of course, no
clutch. The normal system was to warm up the engine by
pedalling it furiously on the stand. The latter consisted of
a trian-gulated steel girder construction, hinged to the
rear spindle, and fastened to the back of the saddle by a
small strap when out of use. Having warmed up, we
restrapped the stand, stood behind the back wheel,
extended a pair of sinuous arms to the handlebar, placed
the left toe on a step (yes, on a step!) screwed to the
rear spindle, and hopped vigorously. Since the compression was as gentle as a maiden’s sigh, the engine did not
willingly fire. But when it fired, and one leapt forward
and upwards - in a word, saddlewards - the engine subsided while we were in mid-air, and the hopping process
recommenced ad lib.
.. placed the
left toe on a
step ..
Why did we not employ the manly run-and-jump
applied to B.R.S. Nortons of a later day? Gentle reader,
have some pity. Push bike traditions practically forced
this step-hopping business on us; it was bred in the
bone, so to speak. Then the height of the machine; the
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10. REPAIRS
exiguity of the saddle; the number of spiky parts on
which one might (and often - did) semi-debag oneself;
the aptness of the high, top-heavy mount to lie down in
the road. . . . I occasionally managed to jump mount
from the side. But not at first. The unfamiliar bark of the
engine and the consciousness that one was the only
motorcyclist in the county, and locally regarded as a
dangerous lunatic - these factors also repressed enterprise. However, I have at least made it clear that straight
pedals were needful. Some cowardly wights habitually
carried enormous black-smith’s pipe wrenches on their
person or machine for this sole purpose. Those who did
not soon regretted the omission.
reasons to be stated - it was never possible to brake the rear
wheel perceptibly, the chief purpose of the front brake was
to induce colossal skids.
A bold rider may hope to correct the skids of a
modern low-built machine. I doubt if anybody ever
obtained the mastery over one of those prehistoric
petrol-camels when it chose to skid. I never did. So I
came to distrust that front brake. It would stop the front
wheel dead. The front wheel would then cease to revolve
and sledge slowly through the mud. The undecelerated
back wheel, fretting under the curb, would pivot violently
to right or left; and my body would ricochet through
space in a series of graceful curves, just like the hammer
when Nokes throws it at Queen’s Club. So I devoted
A Little Matter of Brakes
great thought to my rear brake.
Another heavy item in the bill goes to explain the
I doubt if anybody ever
present opulent position of the Bowden people. My front
obtained the mastery
brake was quite good. Under the right handle-bar grip was a
over one of those
huge plated, scimitar-like piece of metal, for all the world
prehistoric petrolresembling a field-marshal’s sword of ceremony before
camels
sharpening. This ultimately applied a large india-rubber shoe
to the top arc of the front tyre; and when the tyre was dry,
the stopping power of this brake was quite good. Since - for
199
10. REPAIRS
The Bowden people will forgive me if I describe it
with that mellow malice which the years bring to all
philosophers. The rear forks were crossed just above the
tyre by a small plated bridge, containing an adjustable
stop for the Bowden wire. Like my carburetter needle,
the wee threads of this adjuster confessed that the engine
vibration had them whacked to the wide. Short of soldering the adjuster up solid, nothing would make it hold.
Beneath were two large steel crescents on. a pivot, their
lower ends precariously supporting two small fibre
shoes. These shoes were nominally kept off the rim by
two microscopic coil springs, hooked into wafer steel
clips, bolted round the fork tubes on top of paper
packings. Supposing the wire held, and the adjuster did
not slack back, and the steel crescents balanced themselves instead of getting cock-eyed and deftly pushing
one brake shoe into the spokes, and the pull-off springs
did not haul their anchorages bodily up the tubes; why,
then, the fibre shoes could not hope to get any grip on a
light rim which had been ham-mered into hummocks by
the ‘ard, ‘igh road. The Bowden people were most
courteous. When I pointed out that this construction
entailed 2-in. of naked wire, and that rust disintegrated
the said wire rapidly (my local rainfall was 64in. p.a.),
they graciously sent me free of all charge two inches of
small rubber tube, wherewith to protect the naked portion from the fury of the elements. But in all courtesy I
plead that it was a bad brake.
Next in costliness ranks the contact breaker. My
ignition was, of course, coil and accumulator, the primary circuit being broken by a small, pear-shaped device
on the timing gear. This consisted of a movable and
insulated base, on which were two tiny pillars, respectively support-ing a platinum screw, and a spring blade
containing a platinum rivet. The whole was encased in a
light pressing of tinfoil, and, without prejudice to
l’entente cordiale, truth compels me to add that it was
made in France. The adjustment of the platinum points
was far more vital than it is on a magneto; and, like
everything else, these small screws wilted their ineffectual
threads under stress of the unparalleled engine vibration.
Water and mud were splashed freely over the whole
affair, and short-circuited one’s batteries. Finally, imagine
a rider (with No. 10 boots) reduced to the pathological
condition of a losing ‘Varsity stroke at Barnes Bridge,
endeavouring to pedal a machine ten yards further up a
200
bad hill, with every circuit of the pedals taking that No.
10 boot past the contact breaker at a gap of 2mm.; and
you can understand why I bought three new contact
breakers in one season.
10. REPAIRS
L.P.A. (light pedal assistance) at top lamp-post grind in carburetter needle.
L.P.A. at penultimate lamp-post - grind in exhaust
valve.
L.P.A. at bottom lamp-post - grind in everything.
Valve Grinding
I observe with sorrow that I also bought three new
I further notice vindictively that my exhaust valve
accumu-lators during the season. This is not surprising.
was ground in once a week. In fact, in one black week it
Our batteries at this date reposed in a special compartseems to have been ground in no less than four times.
ment of the tin tank, the door being secured by two
Why did I not tackle this simple job myself? To begin, I
skewer hinges. This compartment was unlined - none of
was very green. To go on, my trade mentor assured me
those neat cemented rubber pads which one gets in a
‘that many cylinders were ruined by duffers who insisted
modem case. From this cubby hole umpteen low-tension
on grinding in their valves with a screw-driver or a brace.
wires of great length and inferior quality proceeded to
Now, so he averred, accuracy demanded the use of a
various portions of the machine. They emerged from
lathe. I had not got a lathe. He had. I thought of buying
their secret lair through unbushed holes punched on the
one for the purpose. Till I saw his bill. So weekly, or
sides of the tank. In due course the sharp rims of the
oftener, according to the exact point at which heavy pedal
holes abraded the insulation, or even cut the stranded
assistance became necessary on the half-mile of 1 in 17
copper clean through. Meantime, the engine vibration
leading to my house, off came the cylinder, and on to his
(see above, Passim) joggled the battery up and down.
lathe went my valve. There were three lamp-posts on that
Its plates did not stand on porcelain feet, as nowadays,
hill-I can see them now. When the machine was new, it took
to raise them above the paste sludge. So the paste fell
the entire hill unassisted. Ever afterwards the lamp-posts and
out of the plates and shorted them internally. Or the
repairs formed a sort of geometric progression.
201
terminals hit the top of the tank, and shorted the cells
externally. Or the much-,tried celluloid walls of the cells
parted company at their angles, and let all the acid out.
10. REPAIRS
of smiles, scandalizing the neighbours by carrying the
new boots naked in her hand.
My end of the incident was less picturesque. The
vents jumped out of the cells. The acid jumped out of
Remarkable Foresight
the vent-holes. The acid demoralized the cardboard of
Incredible to relate, when my 1902 machine arrived, the boot-box. The cell, no longer packed, began to jump
its cells were wedged into their tin compartment by bits
about. It pressed its brass terminals firmly against the lid
of cardboard ripped off the box in which a pair of laof the tin compartment. They shorted. A fizz, a buckle,
dies’ boots had been supplied. The machine was proband a bill!
ably the first ever actually sold from its factory. I like to
The new cell, I see, was rather expensive. Some
think that the entire staff assisted at its erection and
heavy fellow, who had shared experiences such as mine,
despatch. It is a romantic thought that the managing
brought out an accumulator filled with jelly. This nondirector’s stenographer was perhaps the sole member of fluid electrolyte, as he pointed out in page advertisethe staff who had undertaken no mechanical function in
ments, could not spill. “Unspillable” was the slogan
its production. I see her standing apart and tearful in a
intended to make his fortune. It didn’t. I invested. An
corner of the packing-room. Suddenly the lynx-eyed
accumulator weighing eight or nine pounds can chew
works manager ejaculates, “That battery needs some
almost any packing to rags in a very few miles, with the
packing.” Men scurry to and fro. Suddenly Gladys
aid of a bucking broncho type of engine. A holy peace
strikes her brow with one lily-white hand. She dives to
descended on’ me with the advent of that cell. For a
the cupboard where the girls keep their mackintoshes,
time. Then one day I noticed a species of eczema on the
drags her new boots from their box, and pleadingly
top of my tank. I applied various cleansers. All in vain.
extends the crushed carton. The men seize it, and
At last the truth dawned. Jelly may not flow, but it can be
squeeze bits of it round my cell. Gladys goes home full
flung.
202
10. REPAIRS
What did I get in return for this £40 bill? Well, here
is a reader’s recipe for resuscitating the lost sensation of
riding a prehistoric motor cycle
Take one Army mule. Stand on sheet of corrugated
iron. Tie round each fetlock one large bunch of empty
bully-beef tins. Place on mule’s back one small block of
hard wood. Sit on this. Soak a piece of rubber in oil, and
set fire to it. Sniff the last ingredient. Procure some .680
petrol. (N.B. - This will have to be specially refined by
some super chemist.) Dip in rag. Smell. Ignite. Apply to
hindquarters of mule. Then close your eyes and imagine
that you are back on your old 1902 machine.”
Take one Army mule.
Stand on sheet of corrugated iron...
203
11. PRACTICAL JOKES
XI. PRACTICAL JOKES
MOTOR cyclists are usually confirmed practical
jokers, though their code bars any serious interference
with a machine on important occasions. This applies
especially to the early days.
On tour and in club runs it has always been legitimate to penalize a rider who knows too much and talks
too much, by putting his machine temporarily out of
commission. A fussy and important motor cyclist can be
amazingly funny when his tank has been secretly filled
with paraffin, or his magneto points separated by a tiny
disc of paper, or the plug wires of his twin crossed, or
his air wire coupled to his throttle and vice versa. But
perhaps the best trick of the sort on record was perpetrated on a dark night some fifteen years ago when
Blinks was refreshing himself inside an inn. One of his
pals wedged a billet of wood between the back tyre and
the mudguard. After lengthy potations Blinks came out
and endeavoured to start his single-geared bus, without
success. A fair Hebe came to the rescue with a twogallon canister of paraffin, and Blinks doped his apparently seized engine repeatedly. We were all very helpful,
and with five or six of us pushing, Blinks at last got away
A fussy and important motorcyclist can be
amazingly funny...
in clouds of blue smoke and proceeded at about 8
m.p.h., sooting a plug every mile or so. He naturally
needed further refreshment at the next town, and while he
was obtaining it we removed the billet of wood, which
now bore a marked Clincher imprint. But we have never
dared to tell Blinks the facts, and to this day he muses
over the queer conduct of that engine.
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11. PRACTICAL JOKES
The Coming of the Field Telephone
An even better prank was once played at a lonely
hill-climb in certain moorland wilds. The advance fatigue
party had planned a stunt which was then practically
unknown, and had made a field telephone to assist in
run-ning the show. We started early on Saturday morning
and laid the wire in the drainage trench beside the road,
concealing the phones in some bends by the roadside.
Then we consumed a picnic lunch and waited for the
rank and file of the staff. As we nibbled sandwiches at
the hill-top, seated perhaps loft. away from the clump of
grass in which the phone lay hid, we heard a sepulchral
voice proceeding apparently out of the void and cursing
us most luridly. The secretary at the hill-foot was calling
us up. This gave us a brain-wave, and we made a foul
plot.
Jenks was not in the secret of the phone, and we soon
made the necessary arrangements with the secretary at
the foot of the hill. Ere long, Jenks was seen threading
the valley at speed, and the party at the summit rapidly
took cover, Bill concealing himself, complete with signal
flag, behind a large boulder, from which he could wag
signals to the hill-foot whilst remaining unseen at the top.
Presently Jenks ascended at speed and dismounted
when he saw our dump of coats, drinks, etc. Putting his
machine on its stand, he made straight for the dump and
began overhauling it for liquids. Bill, invisible behind his
boulder twenty yards away, flagged wildly. The secretary
at the hill-foot a mile away began to mouth impressive
scriptural admonitions up the wire. He began by summoning the unfortunate Jenks with his Christian name in
majestic tones : “Arthur!” Arthur, completely unaware
that there was anybody within miles, looked rather
startled, for the voice of the phone was sepulchral and
The Plot Thickens
A burly and youthful member of the club, whom we stern. He sat up and stared about him, bewildered and
will call Jenks, was sowing his wild oats rather busily just already a little alarmed. Then came a text suggesting
rapid preparation for immediate death and judgment.
then, an his bibulous proclivities had made him rather a
Arthur turned a sort of yellowy green, his pallor being so
nuisance at times. We determined to get our own back,
alarming that the watchers under cover conceived fears
205
11. PRACTICAL JOKES
that he might die of heart failure. The distant secretary, as
judicial and dignified as possible, began to dilate in
severe and well-chosen language on some of Arthur’s
more nefarious love affairs, on his excessive potations,
and on the very pardonable anxiety of his mamma. To
say that these mysterious voices, emanating from the
void, reduced Arthur to a pulp is to put the facts mildly.
He wilted like a pricked balloon, and one of the concealed jokers; afraid of a serious collapse, suddenly
broke cover and let fly a peal of laughter which was
hardly sincere. Arthur was too knocked over to say
anything, and the rather pitiful business was glossed over
somehow; but, being of a resilient temperament, the
victim returned to his oats in a few weeks with undiminished vigour and appetite.
He wilted like a pricked balloon...
206
11. PRACTICAL JOKES
Hanging on a (Screw) Thread
My next yarn is not of a truly motorcycling character, and ought to have ended in tragedy. The Freebooters
were playing the Shincrackers in the county soccer cup
competition. The Freebooters won by the most dastardly exhibition of savaging in the annals of a noble
game. Our - the Shincrackers’ - outside left was a pocket
midget, as full of tricks as an eel, and the Freebooters’
right back systematically pulverized him. Four or five of
the Freebooters reached our village per motor cycle, but
six of them had travelled in a motor bus which was
antique even at the date of the story - about 1906. Whilst
the Freebooters were celebrating their victory in the local
inn, some of the Shincrackers’ supporters, shielded by
the gloom of a foggy December evening, crept beneath
the said antique bus and examined the holdings of its top
structure. They finally removed the two front bolts which
held the body to the frame. From the two rear bolts they
withdrew the spring washers and poised the nuts precariously at the tip of the threads. Anon the Freebooters,
flushed with wine, victory, and brutality, set forth on their
homeward jaunt. The bus, having been constructed by
the local undertaker from the wreck of an aged Gladiator,
still boasted the front seat of its original touring body,
behind which a home-made bus body formed a cross
between a conservatory tory and a chicken-house.
Six tipsy Freebooters..heavily dumped in the lane
207
11. PRACTICAL JOKES
Ten miles out the bus successfully vibrated the two
last nuts off the tip of the threads, and the rear body,
containing six tipsy Freebooters, was heavily dumped in
the lane, whilst the driver, blissfully unconscious, drove
on home to Freebooterville. The villagers turned out era
masse to welcome the conquering heroes. As the driver
turned round with a proud smile to watch “the boys”
being chaired to their respective domiciles, his face fell.
Astern of his seat stretched a long expanse of naked
chassis. (see previous page)
Meanwhile the blaspheming Freebooters had extricated themselves from a welter of splintered deal and
broken glass some eight miles back and were keeping
anxious patrol by turns in the twisty lane to prevent other
traffic from ramming a derelict shanty in the centre of the
fairway, inside which the rest of the team sought uncomfortable shelter from the icy blasts and stinging snow of
a mid-Decemher night.
A safe and evergreen joke to play on an unsuspecting motor cyclist is to block up his exhaust pipe, a prank
performed in all climes since engines began. I have seen
it applied many times, but never to quite such good
effect as in a certain Six Days trial. The victim was not a
competitor, but occupied a minor official position, by
dint of which he Prussianized rather too freely. Moreover, he talked as if he knew much more than he did.
The job was very neatly done, and nobody except himself knows when it was discovered. Quite possibly he
never found out, and the clue only came to some desperate repairer who may have bought the machine as a
bargain later on. A drilled plug was concealed in the
exhaust pipe, thereby reducing its effective bore by
some 50 per cent. A hole was tapped on the under-side
of the pipe in an unostentatious position, and a pin inserted to prevent the plug from shifting.
208
The engine ran beautifully until he opened the
throttle, when it misbehaved extraordinarily. Short of
some excuse for suspecting practical jokes, there was
naturally no great likelihood of the real cause being spotted, and the victim’s struggles on hills through the week
were pathetic. He attributed his failures to a slipping
clutch; but had he only known it, the outwardly emotionless listeners to his long nightly tales of woe which he
told in the official bar parlour were inwardly doing some
3,000 convulsions per minute.
12. MORE PRACTICAL JOKES
XII. MORE PRACTICAL JOKES
SINCE I resurrected a few practical jokes of a
motor cycling character in The Motor Cycle, various
corre-spondents and friends have reminded me of several others, which have long since grown prolonged
whiskers. I publish them not without misgivings that I
may presently be hoist with my own petard.
Wireless experts know what a “grid leak” is. The
modern steatite sparking plug does not lend itself to this
experiment as well as some obsolete patterns. But if a
soft pencil be taken and a broad pencil line be drawn
down the insulator from the terminal to the body of the
plug, an excellent short circuit can be provided ; and if
the line be drawn at the back of the plug the owner is
unlikely to discover it for a considerable time.
A more humorous experiment is possible when a
renegade to the sport arrives at your house ‘for lunch in
a car - the bigger the car the better the joke. Engaging the
owner with food or conversation, charter some varlet to
procure a small and unobtrusive jack with which one rear
wheel of the objectionable vehicle may be firmly supported so that its tyre just clears the surface of your
drive.
209
Make the farewell scene hearty and genial as possible. The car owner is extremely unlikely to suspect the
truth when he lets in his clutch, and with any luck he will
lay bare his clutch and examine carefully, after which he
may proceed to take the lid off his gearbox. Unless this
trick is carried out by a gang of stout fellows, it is well to
have a weapon handy. By the time the owner tumbles to
the trick his best suit will be adorned with crumbs of
gear grease, and the strongest friendship may well fall
into sudden ruin.
The owner is unlikely to discover it for a
considerable time.
A good variant to the game of permanently plugging
an exhaust pipe, previously described, is that of improvising a momentary plug when the owner is not looking.
Jones, let us say, has successfully started his new supersports, and is bragging about her tune. Seated on the
saddle, he demonstrates her tick-over and thunderous
acceleration with deft motions of his throttle. Partly
camouflaged by the admiring group around him, you
alternately leave his exhaust open, and choke it for him
by any improvised means, such as clapping the sole of
your boot against his fishtail.
I am all against any real mechanical interference with
a pal’s machine. But in the case of a frightful bounder
who needs a real lesson it may occasionally be permissible to retime the magneto; this should not be overdone,
substituting full retard for full advance being far better
than transferring the spark to the exhaust stroke, or to
solder up the passage connecting the float chamber to
the jet chamber. In one priceless case of this sort an
unspeakable person was despatched to Scotland for a
whole week by his firm. During his absence, and for his
soul’s good, his riding associates took his engine entirely
to pieces and substituted a new connecting rod consid-
210
erably shorter than the original part. The resultant engine
symptoms baffled several experts, who were not in the
know, for quite a time. Another rather cruel trick of the
same kind has never been solved by the victims to this
day. The engine was of peculiar construction, a certain
part being attached to the exterior of the main bush by
means of a stout grubscrew. With the aid of a giant
turnscrew, this grubscrew was tightened home so violently as to distort the main bush, causing the crankshaft
to bind. The engine was runnable, but its running was
not as heretofore. The engine being finally dismantled in
desperation, it ran well after re-assembly; but the operators never tumbled to the cause of the trouble. Such
ruthless derangements as these should be reserved for
disciplinary purposes under grave provocation.
The Envy of All
In the early days of the original tricar boom it was
customary to retain pedalling gear, partly for starting up
the engine, partly for emergency assistance on steep
hills. A very famous rider had sufficient imagination to
grasp the folly of perpetuating cycling features, and he
promptly constructed a two-speed gear and starting
handle. These made their public bow at the opening
Brighton run of the M.C.C., which was then a star occasion for introducing new models. What time his trade
rivals step-danced in un-gainly fashion on pedals
hemmed in by numerous frangible fittings, and from time
to time fractured glass oil and petrol gauges when a huge
boot slipped off a pedal on the compression stroke, Hgaily twirled a little handle re-sembling the winch of a
sewing machine, and made spiteful remarks sotto voce
about Noah and the flood. The rivals sulked.
The run took tea at Crawley, and H-, having scored
a distinct personal triumph, took a good long tea. But he
had unwarily left his starting handle in the pocket of his
raincoat in the forecar. Tea at last being over, the club
poured out into the road, and while others eyed their
pedals and regretted that final slab of cake, H- sauntered
debonairly up to his forecar and explored the pocket of
his raincoat. Nothing doing. Ultimately he had to push
off amidst the loudly-expressed pity of his club-mates. I
could not stay to the dinner at the “Old Ship” but I
rather fancy H-’s starting handle was returned to him
when he lifted the silver cover off an entree dish.
211
Under cover of dark, many freaks impossible by
daylight may be attempted. For example, not so very
long ago a club called for dinner at a roadside inn, and a
wag in the party noted Brown’s sidecar outfit had been
parked up against a wheeled chicken-house in the corner
of the yard, and that a coil of fencing wire lay fairly
adjacent. It was only the work of a few moments to wire
Brown’s back axle securely to the aforesaid chickenhouse. At closing time the rays of many head lamps, all
pointing streetward, created Cimmerian darkness behind
the machines. Brown started up, mounted, put a gear in,
and clutched up with the delicacy of a good rider. The
resistance being unusual, his engine stopped. He repeated the process, giving a little extra throttle. By this
time most of the club had cleared the yard, and Brown
desired neither to take their dust nor to be the last home.
So he yanked his throttle wide open, and let his clutch in
ruthlessly. The noise was appalling. Great panels of wire
netting, forming a chicken yard, were wrenched from
their staples, the small iron wheels of the chicken-house
ground lustily, and the chickens, presently awaking,
added their protests to the general uproar. Then the
landlady and her handmaidens came out.
The chief offender was by this time well started for
home on an o.h.v. Norton.
Great panels of wire netting....
were wrenched from their staples,
212
With the connivance of the hotel staff, a narrow
corridor on a bedroom floor lends itself to tests of the
good temper of your mates. Select two bedrooms, the
doors of which are opposite. They should preferably be
occupied by two men who are pals and who do not rise
too early for the next day’s run, which in a Six Days
event is probably timed to commence at some highly
insanitary hour. Rising early yourself, procure a length of
light rope slightly exceeding the width of the corridor,
and firmly rope the handles of the two doors together a
few moments after the .two victims have been roused by
the chambermaid. Robinson, let us say, is the first up.
He attempts to quit his room at speed, having left himself
a beggarly five minutes for breakfast. Inside forty seconds he is hauling at the door handle, raving and cursing.
Smith, opposite, notes that his bedroom door is behaving queerly, and investigates. Fragments of Robinson’s
objurgations presently reach his sleep-drugged ears.
Each of them decides that the other is having a lark with
him, and presently they get really cross after such mild
protests as “A joke’s a joke, old man, but there is such a
thing as carrying it too far, and I’m due to kick off at
7.10.” They try ringing their bells for the chambermaid-
always useless at a Six Days hotel, and anyhow you have
her bribed at the far end of the passage. It is now time to
watch for (a) the rope to break, or (b) one of the door
handles to become disintegrated. Before either termination occurs, you should be far away.
213
Each of them decides that the other
is having a lark with him
The Mayor at the Dinner
Once upon a time a motor cycling club decided to
eliminate tedious speeches from their annual dinner and
confine the official guests to good fellows. But the local
mayor haughtily informed the secretary that he should be
pleased to grace the proceedings, and there was no
escape. As chairman of the local bench, the worthy
cheesemonger had considerably scarified several members of the club, not so much by his fines, as by the
interminable paternal homilies which he had imposed
from the bench when they were caught speeding. So
they decided to get their own back. They put him in the
chair, of course. Opposite his place there reposed on the
table the immense silver challenge cup which was the
club’s pride. Underneath its pedestal was a tiny rubber
bag, connected by an unostentatious tube running beneath the tablecloth to a rubber bulb, secreted in the
hand of a club official.
During the soup and eke the fish courses, the
behaviour of the silver cup was exemplary ; it never so
much as stirred. But by this period the mayor had had
one or two, and, being a solemn person with an eye to
the dignity of his person and office, was feeling anxious
lest he should grow a trifle muzzy before the toasts had
been concluded. At this stage in the proceedings the
challenge cup commenced from time to time to give a
slight convulsive shudder. The mayor at first could not
believe his eyes. He cast furtive glances at the cup from
time to time, and was rendered increasingly anxious by
an expression of rather solicitous surprise in the eyes of
the officials seated near him. The club operator behaved
admirably. He was careful not to overdo things. For the
most part, the great cup stood rock-steady. But every
now and then it shuddered very slightly, especially when
the mayor was halfway through a fresh glass, which had
been more or less forcibly refilled in the teeth of vigorous mayoral protests. Presently the unfortunate magistrate was lulled to false security by that treacherous cup,
which had suddenly ceased to shudder at all. The loyal
and routine toasts were through, and the mayor had cast
off his early trepida-tion. Local and personal toasts were
succeeding each other like rapid fire, and the mayor was
thoroughly happy and becoming fairly well heeled, when
suddenly that dis-graceful cup positively staggered. We
saw the mayoral eye pale and harden incredulously. His
geniality sloughed off him like a snakeskin, and never for
214
more than a few seconds did he remove his anxious gaze
from that incredible trophy. Our president inquired tenderly, “Aren’t you feeling very well, your worship?” He
turned green at that. Slight shudders at intervals on the
part of the cup were plainly indicated and duly administered with con-summate tact. Finally, our self-invited
guest turned and fled, muttering something about a long
day with the borough surveyor on the morrow. He probably took the pent-up roars which sped his departure as
a tipsy tribute to his personal popularity.
215
13. IGNITION
XIII. IGNITION
THE original motor cycle ignition was known as the
“tube” type. A burner, fed with petrol under pressure,
played on a platinum tube, the business end of which
projected into the combustion chamber and would have
caused chronic pre-ignition if there had been sufficient
compression. I never rode more than one machine so
equipped - a fact to which I possibly owe my life.
The mechanism was wisely arranged on a small
platform over the front wheel, which it shared with a
biscuit-tin full of lamp wicks and petrol, optimistically
known as a carburetter. Each component was possessed
by a little devil, and the two devils acted in concert. They
automatically ruled out the depreciation which now
worries us, by destroying the machine before it had time
to depreciate. As a rule, the burner ignited the carburetter
within a month of purchase; this risk explained why the
apparatus was put where the front mudguard ought to
have been - you could keep an eye on it and dive overboard when flames shot up. If the conflagration did not
occur while you were peacefully riding along, it inevitably occurred when you fell off.
Falling off was a habit dictated by two caprices of
the machine. Caprice No. 1 consisted of both brakes
going out of action when most required. Caprice No. 2
took the form of most virulent sideslip, due to a combination of smooth tyres with a centre of gravity located in
the plane of the top tube. The great thing was to be
thrown clear on these occasions. Otherwise you got
cremated. I was thrown clear. Then electric ignition came
in and saved my life.
216
Caprice No. 2 took the form of
most virulent sideslip
My first electric ignition was quite good. Gracing a De
Dion tricycle, it consisted of a portly dry battery; a substantial contact breaker; a huge cylindrical coil attached to the
back axle by plated clips, through one of which it was
earthed; and several dozen yards of bell-wire draped about
the frame in picturesque festoons. It was common talk that
only three men in England knew how to adjust the De Dion
contact breaker, for the tension of the blade exercised a
remarkable effect on easy starting and the power output; but
this, I feel sure, was a gross libel.
only three men in England knew how to adjust the
De Dion contact breaker
13. IGNITION
An old De Dion machine could give plenty of ignition trouble. I once picked one up second-hand and did
not get it to fire for three weeks. The bell-wire had
mostly perished. Rust had ruined the earth via the coil
clips. The switch consisted of a revolving hand-bar grip,
and its tiny parts had been removed and replaced hundreds of times. Worst of all, the contact breaker had
been renewed from imitation parts, made by profiteers
who employed old corset springs for the blade, and any
metal which could be polished white for the “platinum”
rivets. But the genuine De Dion stuff was uncommonly
good, though the generous spirals of low-tension wire,
so freely wreathed round everything, were alarming to a
novice.
British-But Not Best
My next ignition, I regret to say, was British. Its coil
contained no condenser worth the name, and blackened
genuine platinum points in half a day. The baseplate of
the contact breaker was made of tinfoil and bushed with
putty; its cover, ingeniously placed just where my heel
would foul it when pedalling to start, always crumpled at
a touch and shorted the innards of the contraption all
217
13. IGNITION
over the place. The screws securing the platinum contacts were of the size one only meets nowadays on the
Cee springs of a magneto contact breaker; they were
bedded in some forgotten metal as soft as butter, and
stripped their threads as soon as they heard the rattle of
your tool-bag strap. Moreover, the De Dion dry battery
had foolishly been replaced by two measly little 8-ampere-hour accumulators, furnished with a two-ray switch,
and of the flimsiest character. These miserable cells
joggled up and down inside a compartment of the tank.
If they did not short against its metal, their bell-wire
connections were speedily snipped through by the
unbushed holes through which they merged to the
switches. Of these there were no less than three!
No. 1. -The two-way switch for coupling up either
battery at will.
No. 2. - The “interrupter plug” switch, provided to
avoid running down the cells if the contact breaker
chanced to be in the contact position when the engine
stopped; this consisted of a vulcanite block with a loose
brass plug. The Quadrant machine ingeniously utilized a
sixpence, and knowledgeable urchins always inspected a
Quadrant very closely in hopes that the absent owner
had left his tanner in the switchblock.
No. 3 was the usual twist-grip for driving emergencies, but was not so well made as the De Dion type; one
usually removed it in a week or two and substituted a
bulky gadget sold for the purpose.
218
knowledgeable urchins always inspected a
Quadrant very closely in hopes ...
13. IGNITION
A New Plaything
The extreme badness of these early British contact
breakers may be judged from the fact that many experts
clamoured for a return to lamp ignition. I seriously think
the return might have come about if some genius had not
applied the trembler coil - so dear to Henry - to our
machines. This was a real joy. In the first place, it banished the troublesome platinum points, for which we
bought spares every week at 3s. 6d. a time; for the
buzzer coil utilized a wipe contact, which as often as not
ran in grease ands evinced no dislike of the oil which at
that date was spewed in fountains from the sloppy halftime bushes of all our engines; but the abolition of the
“make and break” was not the real cause of the joy we
took in trembler coils.
Be it understood that very few of us knew anything
about electricity. When we had tracked a road stop to
the ignition, we might have burnt out the coil; our cells
might be dud-we carried voltmeters to try them with; the
contact breaker might be suffering from any of the thousand ills to which it was heir; or any inch of the yards
and yards of bell-wire might be abraded; or one of the
three mysterious switches might have gone phut; but as
soon as the trembler coils came in, the buzz was a most
gleesome aid to diagnosis. First of all, it informed you
unmistakably right at the very start whether or not the
ignition was to blame for your stoppage. If there was a
healthy buzz, probably your petrol was not up to the
air-holes in the surface carburetter.
If no buzz, you started hunting the electricity; and
the buzz came back when you touched the right spot. It
was great. I converted an imitation De Dion ignition to a
Vandervell trembler coil with a home-made wipe contact,
and ran it 15,000 miles with no trouble except accumulators and plugs.
Accumulators! Designers who posed as philanthropists but were probably the meanest of men, forbore, to
fit two accumulators, on the ground that it “coplicated
the wiring” and that their patent cell was absolutely reliable if recharged by a “competent electrician” every 500
miles. I believed and bought. Simpler wiring was my
heart’s desire at the moment. The patent cell burst its
walls; it sulphated; it shorted itself against the tank; it
spewed acid from its vents, burnt up the wiring and
rotted the tank; it leaked acid over my clothes, compelling me on one occasion to return home in an improvised
219
13. IGNITION
kilt for decency’s sake. This was Gamage’s opportunity.
He was always a live man, and after twenty years I bear
him no malice at all. He advertised that the proper place
to carry “the spare cell” was on one’s person, where it
would not be subject to the vibration of the machine. For
this purpose he had put on the market a neat leather case
not much larger than a Kodak wallet. It was lined with
steel to resist the corrosive effects of leaky acid. Price
8s. 6d. And a cell to fit, eight-ampere-hours guaranteed,
10s. 6d.
an improvised kilt for decency’s sake
I paid up my 19s. like a man, and if I had met Mr.
Gamage I should have embraced him out of sheer gratitude.
I daresay the cell was a genuine: eight-ampere-hour. I
never had the opportunity of testing its capacity. If Mr.
Gamage had furnished it with chains for attachment to
my person I should doubtless have known the truth. As
it was, the case was made to be slung round the shoulders by a strap. Not a very good strap either. The acid
was too much for it on my very first ride. I heard a
sickening plop, rather like an over-ripe fig colliding with
a stone wall. I looked down, and there was my new 10s.
6d. cell lying in the road with its walls opening out like a
child’s house of playing-cards.
That I have left sparking plugs to the tail end of
these memories is no indication that they were reliable.
Soberly, truthfully, and accurately, I bought them by the
dozen. So did we all. You must not fancy that they cost
£3 per dozen, as they do now. At one of Gamage’s sales
I once bought a dozen sparking plugs for 6s. 6d., and
even at that I consider I was overcharged. Practically all
the plugs of that era were made in France, and consisted
of an extremely brittle china insulator with two points of
florist’s wire. There was no perceptible difference between
220
13. IGNITION
one make and another, except in the colour of the porcelain.
Blue was my favourite colour, personally. The gadget plug
already existed. I remember one bright example sold by a
Mr. Calvert, which had a quartz insulator. The merit of this
was that you could see the explosion through the quartz and
judge by its colour whether the mixture was correct, resetting your air tap to suit. I invested largely. On the rare occasions when I could get the plugs to function, the mixture
was invariably the wrong colour.
The life of the ordinary porcelain plug was always the same
save in one detail. You put in a new plug. It fired. You rode
happily for a little way. Then the engine emitted strange noises.
One of three things might have happened, viz.
i. There was nothing at all left of the plug except its metal
socket, the centre having been bodily blown out.
2. The plug was still present on parade, but was visibly
quivering like a jelly or like the fat emperor in San Toy,
the porcelain insulator having sheared round the waist
and being held together by the central electrode.
3. The plug was ostensibly O.K. This was the worst fate of all.
You knew at once that the lower half of the insulator, plus the
two spidery electrodes, had descended into the cylinder.
Laying the machine on its side and tugging the piston jerkily
with the aid of the belt, you endeavoured to eject the broken
portions from the cylinder. Sometimes they came out. Sometimes they stayed inside and chewed up your piston rings.
One solitary ignition had something of a reputation
for reliability from the outset. This was the Simms
low-tension magneto, fitted to the Singer and one or two
other engines. Incredible to relate, it had a mechanical
make-and-break inside the combustion chamber. That I
have nothing vicious to say of it is possibly explained by
the fact that I never
owned a sample. On one
occasion I took out a
tricycle fired by this
ignition ; but it did not
have a chance to occasion me any anxiety,
because the aluminium
spokes of the motor
wheel quietly folded up
before the engine had
Then the engine emitted
time to get frisky.
strange noises.
221
XIV. EQUIPMENT
THE motor cyclist of today, who grows peevish
because his twin armoured panniers are not fitted out at
the factory with spare valves, plugs, and chain links,
ought to have entered the pastime in 1903.
About that date I took delivery of a “2-1/4 h.p.”
(nominal) machine, which had its parsimonious tool-kit
disposed in a small leather bag the size of the manicure
cases which ladies carry in their vanity bags. This portly
wallet was attached by two slender brown-papery straps
passed through slots stamped out of the back of the
saddle. Its contents were as follows
(1) A stamped wheel cone spanner.
(2) Two pedal cycle tyre levers some 4-in. long.
(3) A 4-in. imitation King Dick adjustable spanner.
(4) A tin oilcan, of the size which go four to the ounce.
(5) A “multiple” tool.
These multiple tools were a standard convention of
the motor cycle trade at that date, and for some years
later, and were wildly interesting. Their handles consisted, like the, floorboards of the modern cheap car, of
14. EQUIPMENT
a peculiar timber which I have never met elsewhere on
sea or land, and its chief characteristic was that it split at
sight. Inside this handle were concealed a toothpick, a
cork-screw, a screw-driver, bladed with tin-foil and
assuming weird whorly shapes if you were fool enough
to use it, and a broach. Green as we all were, a very few
miles suggested that more tools were desirable. Notably,
a sparking plug spanner; a big blacksmith’s wrench for
straightening the pedal cranks; a tyre outfit; a dozen
plugs; three or four
valves; lots of insulating
tape; and a tin box full of
contact breaker spares.
All these were compulsorily carried in our pockets for a year or two, to
the great detriment of our
personal appearance and
the huge profit of our
tailors. For some two
years I resembled a well... compulsorily carried
laden mule crossing the
in our pockets ...
Pyrenees.
222
14. EQUIPMENT
Then somebody - Lycett, I think-invented a Saratoga
trunk type of tool-bag for hitching to the back of the
saddle in lieu of the aforesaid manicure case. For a week
all was peace. Then the flimsy saddle began to complain.
Its springs broke. Its steel framing cracked. Its leather
slots ripped out. We bought new saddles, and strapped
the new “ark” tool-bags to our carriers. Then somebody
else invented a sturdy saddle, calculated to support the
weight of our tool-bags. And so the industry progressed.
rider felt something prick his leg as he thigh-gripped the
tank hard on a bad corner. He looked down and beheld
the business end of his belt gimlet protruding inquisitively from the transfer which adorned his tank side. He
remarked - no, on second thoughts I will cease the incident at this point.
Apart from these sketchy tool-kits, no equipment
was provided with the prehistoric motor cycle. Not even
a lamp-bracket. Probably because machines were regarded as sufficiently fearsome by day, when you could
watch the parts shaking loose, and salve them in the nick
The Horrors of Accumulator Ignition
of time. It was obviously crazy to ride in the dark, when
But, stay! I had almost forgotten a worse horror.
These were the days of accumulator ignition. Accumula- you could not keep an eye on the components, nor
recover them from the road after they had dropped off.
tors spill sulphuric acid. Sulphuric acid eats leather. Sothey couldn’t make us carry our accumulators in leather But experience soon proved that the ride which was
begun at dawn did not necessarily terminate before
wallets. The solution was to construct cunning little
cupboards in the bowels of our petrol tanks. Closed by sunset.
hinged metal doors. Locked by a loose steel skewer after
So we bought clip-on lamp-brackets. My first bolted
the fashion of an old woman’s market basket. Then
round the steering head tube, and the beam consequently
some designer of genius mused to himself: “I will save
peered straight ahead when the machine was rounding a
manufacturing costs by storing the tools in a second little corner. This would have been a distinct drawback if
cupboard inside the tank!” Which he promptly did. And there had been any beam. But the beam was usually
how they rattled! In a certain reliability trial a famous
reduced to the candle-power of a mere bobby dodger,
223
and resembled the expiring smoulder of a cheap, foreign
match. You see, we used ordinary pedal cycle gas lamps
with spring hinges. First, the spring broke, and we
chopped lumps of wood out of the hedgerow to replace
it. Then the hinge broke. We wired and strapped what
was left of the lamp. Then the glass fell out. Then the
reflector tumbled in the road. In strict honesty and sobriety I have finished more than one run with just the generator, the burner bracket, and the burner remaining.
Then the glass fell out.
Then the reflector tumbled in the road
14. EQUIPMENT
Hooters were only a legal necessity. All traffic got
out of our way with delicious velocity, whether we
hooted or not. But we did not carry hooters merely to
satisfy the law. We liked hooting. The raucous honkhonk was an intrinsic part of the colour and atmosphere
of the new sport. I used to buy splendid hooters for 8s.
6d. from Bransom and Kent. They emitted a most satisfying noise, but did not last very long. Fitted with rather
wafery clips, such as still linger on bicycle “pipsqueaks,”
they had an annoying habit of jangling along the handlebar towards its centre. Then the trumpet portion slowly
became detached. Remember we had rigid forks, unbalanced engines, and very narrow tyres. I do not suppose
it was possible to manufacture any accessory which
could long resist such vibration as we then suffered; but
with unlimited insulating tape and copper wire and broad
straps we kept them on somehow.
My first British machine had two brakes of a character now obsolete. Its front brake was quite reliable,
consisting of a large shaped rubber pad or spoon, forcibly depressed against the top of the front tyre by a huge
plated lever resembling a small crowbar. It was quite
effective, and wore the tyre less than one might suppose;
224
in fact, it saved my life repeatedly. Its defect was that the
front mudguard terminated
abruptly at the fork; so whenever the spoon brake was
applied in dirty weather, two
fountains of brown mud
spouted fanwise from the
front tyre and sprayed all over
one’s trousers. >>>>>>>
Of the rear brake, it is
harder to write kindly. A huge
plated steel horse-shoe all but
encircled the rear tyre just
behind the rear fork tubes.
Each horn of the shoe was
supposed to contain a small
fibre pad. The horse-shoe
was held central by two microscopic pull-off springs,
hooked to clips precariously
bolted to the forks. One
applied the brake violently in
14. EQUIPMENT
fountains of brown mud spouted fan
an emergency. As a rule, no deceleration occurred. Both
brake shoes might have gone west. The wire might have
broken through rust at its naked areas. The tiny adjustment nuts might have shaken loose.
On the other hand, the deceleration might be instantaneous and sensational. As, for instance, if one brake
shoe and one pulloff spring had gone
west. The horseshoe would then
have rocked sideways, and one of its
arms would neatly
rip out all the spokes
on that side of the
wheel. The wheel
would then become
elliptical with extreme rapidity.
... neatly rip out
all the spokes . . .
225
Of course, we braked principally with the soles of
our boots; an awkward manoeuvre when one’s saddle
might be 34-in. off the ground. The renaissance of the
British boot trade was inspired chiefly by the invention
of the motor cycle.
But when all is said and done, it was the starting of the
early motor cycles which kept us young, physically fit, and
mentally alert. It was a chancy business with the “surface”
type of carburetter. Recent recruits must understand that this
consisted of a sort of biscuit tin, fitted into the tank; petrol
to a depth of an inch or so was swilled about in the base of
this box until petrol vapour was emitted. A leak hole at the
top, controlled by a stumpy tap, admitted as much air as
one thought judicious.
With •680 spirit it worked better than one might
expect. But with an automatic inlet valve which was
probably stuck up; an exhaust valve which was scaled
rather than pitted; a cylinder which had become hopelessly distorted when first it was run; a contact breaker
which was falling to bits, full of dirt and oil, and defiled
by German silver points in lieu of platinum; and an ignorant novice for owner - there was no saying how long
one might have to wait for bang No.1.
14. EQUIPMENT
So we did not push to start - that might be a matter
of miles. If we had a stand, we put the machine on it,
and we pedalled hard, frenziedly experimenting with the
air tap as our legs flew round in a blur of sweat. Modern
riders may not believe it, but when the engine started it
frequently fired so feebly that we kept on pedalling for
two or three more minutes to keep it going.
... our legs flew round in a blur of sweat
226
14. EQUIPMENT
For a year I had no stand - I do not think any were
made. Then Lake and Elliott brought out a light folding
trestle made of meccano strips for garage use; and I
bought one with infinite joy. Some time later fearful and
wonderful stands were marketed for permanent attachment to the machine; one of them once snapped across
the top and cut my back cover in halves during a Six
Days trial.
The standless machine created special anxieties
about a restart on the road, miles away from one’s twin
packing cases. All was well so long as the engine was
warm ; trouble began when one stopped for a meal, and
at that date I was a walking encyclopmdia as to those
hotels which were situated on nice steep down grades. I
would wait an hour for lunch rather than stop at an inn
on the flat. If stern necessity compelled me to feed on
the level, I would visit a garage, and, after innocently
buying what a petrol and spare parts I needed, I would
inquire if they had a motor cycle stand.
227
15. GEARS
XV. GEARS
THE modern motor cyclist seldom gives gears a
thought, unless it be to brag that his machine four gears
instead of the usual three; or if he be a knut, to swank
about his “close ratio” speedman’s box, for which he
pays by anxiety on freak hills, where his emergency ratio
is probably far too high for confidence. He can therefore
hardly picture either the tribulations which the pioneers
suffered when all riding was performed on a single gear
ratio, operated by a belt which slipped far oftener than it
gripped; or the far more severe sufferings which befell us
when crude and primitive gears of weird design were
first unloaded on a patient public by experi-mentalist
factories.
The first and simplest attempt to improve our
hill-climbing was deliciously simple. The bus had two fixed
and unalterable pulleys, one on the engine and one on the
back wheel. Normally, one used a belt 3/4-in. wide. It was
obvious that a 5/8-in. or 1/2-in. belt would possess less
contact, and so less grip; it might slip rather more than the
bigger belt, and so assist climbing. On approaching a fierce
hill, one dismounted, removed the big belt, and fitted the
small belt; after which filthy job even a casual ward would
hesitate to admit the rider to its sanitary precincts; for of all
the filths discoverable on earth’s surface, the grease which
exuded from a well-used leather belt was at once the most
odious and the most tenacious.
Some of us then devised the plan of carrying a spare
engine pulley of small diameter. It was by the aid of this stunt
that such hills as Sutton and Sunrising were first climbed.
The standard pulley would give a gear of about four to one;
the smallest pulley which could be got on to the engine
would afford a gear of 6-1/2 to 1. So we used to carry a
spare pulley in our side pockets. To change a pulley necessitated the use of a huge spanner (to unlock the nut); wedges
(to insert between pulley and crankcase); and a large lead
hammer (wherewith to tap the end of the crank-shaft and
make the pulley jump). These extra impedimenta made it
undesirable to carry a spare belt cut to the length of the low
gear ; and we usually made up our belts in two sections with
a couple of hooks, taking out the short piece for the small
pulley. In long rides and trials we carried a spare belt. It
started the trip neatly coiled up like a clock spring under the
luggage on the carrier. After the first hill it was usually wound
round our waist, or neck, or swathed round the handle-bar,
or stuffed into a pocket.
228
15. GEARS
Hill-Climbing Procedure
Next came the adjustable pulley, with a threaded
barrel and a loose outer flange, which could be screwed
in towards the fixed inner flange, or further out from it.
In trials, whenever the route card indicated that there was
a hill ahead, the boys would get their noses down on the
lamp brackets, and scrap like blazes to its foot. Leaping
off like firemen on arrival at a burning house, they would
rip spare belts from around their waists, seize a tool,
reset the pulley, drain the stale oil out of the engine, inject
three charges of fresh oil, tie their overalls round the
handle-bar, and depart up the gradient with their feet
poised on the pedals ready for an effort comparable to
that of the finishing spurt in a boat race.
Anon, experimental two-speed gears made a shy and
timid appearance. Phelon and Moore were first in this
field. I lacked the sense to buy one of their machines,
but bought one of their gears and put it on a light machine designed for belt drive. As the gear was chain
driven, it rapidly devoured both my engine and my
frame, both of which were too light for it. The engine
was never designed to run at the high speeds obtainable
on a low gear of 11 to 1. The vibration made my teeth
chatter, almost gave me lock-jaw, trembled all the small
fittings off the bicycle, and finally bent the crankshaft.
The engine was reconstructed, whereupon the rear
part of the frame of the bicycle bent. I went back to belt
drive, but failed to finish in a certain trial, simply because
it rained all day, and my belt slipped so continuously on
the hills that I finally went home in a horsed bus. My next
gear was comparable in size to a railway station platform-at least that is what it felt like.
There was a rectangular platform of steel tube in the
centre of the bicycle, carrying two magnificent rubbercovered - footboards, each about 36-in. x 9-in. Beneath
them was a shaft carrying two loose sprockets, each
provided with a sliding dog clutch. A huge leather cone
clutch adorned the engine. I showed off on this for a
week or two, till a wet spell set in, and the machine lay
down on a corner. When I picked it up, the tubular
platform had been knocked cock-eye, and the dog
clutches would no longer slide. I regret to confess that
after this ,machine had been trued up, I callously sold it
to a timid, elderly novice, resident-fortunately-at a considerable distance from my home.
229
A Popular Machine
The N.S.U. machines at this date enjoyed a considerable vogue all over the world-they were the only factory with any real export trade, and British machines
were unsaleable against them in British colonies. Wellmade, they had a beautiful little epicyclic gear on the
crankshaft, which gave some such ratios as 5-1/2 and 8
to 1.
The British maker whom I patronized at this date,
despairing of designing a gear for himself, bought
N.S.U. gears. He never spotted the fact that they were
supposed to be lubricated from the engine through a
hollow crankshaft. His crank-shaft was solid, and so the
gears which he fitted were un-lubricated. Needless to
add that my low gear seized up solid in Wigan, where I
spent several’ very reluctant days of my short summer
holiday, repairing the mess. We started the job blithely,
but in about ten minutes uncovered a collar which no
known tool would touch. Even in Wigan August could
be warm, and we lost several stone apiece bending over
the forge and making a tool to shift this collar. At long
last the tool was made, and. the collar began to come
off. In a few seconds came a loud spanging noise, and
15. GEARS
the entrails of the watch-like gear dispersed themselves in
assorted parabolas. The repair shop, after the manner of
those days, was part scrap-heap, part junk store, and
part tool shop. Neither of us had ever seen the bits of the
gear before, and after some eight hours’ hard .labour on
the part of the entire Personnel of the shop, we had piled
on the bench a heap of springs, nuts, gear-wheels, washers, spindles, and other small metal parts, which might or
might not have formed part of the original jig-saw. Two
days later we had re-erected what we hoped was the
gear; but when we mounted it on the crankshaft, it revolved as a solid eccentric mass, groaning most excruciatingly. I returned home by train, and the gear went to
Germany, where it evidently outraged the Neckar-sulmer
people, if one may ‘judge from our laborious translations
of their correspondence.
More About Gears
Undaunted by this fearsome experience, I bought a
Nala two-speed hub, which was another German device,
on the bevel differential principle. The factory built it into
a wheel for me, or I should never have ridden it; as it
was, I did not realize its weight until much later in its
230
15. GEARS
history. When the new bus first took the road, I experienced at once a sensation as if I was sitting on a cast
iron saddle over one of Boadicea’s elm section chariot
wheels, shod with a cast lead tyre. But even then I did
not grasp the fact that the hub weighed about 2cwt. After
a marvellous no trouble morning run, I sat down at a
good inn for a first-class lunch. Anon another motor
cyclist appeared, and shared my table. “Have you just
come along from X?” I had. “You dropped some wire I have it in my overalls.” “ Don’t bother,” I remarked
politely, thinking he alluded to the copper wire, which
was part of every rider’s stock in trade; “I have another
hank in my trouser pocket. It may be useful to you.”
However, in the yard outside he handed me some objects which I recognized with horror as bent and dismembered spokes. I dived in terror for my bus. Yes. Its
rear wheel was decidedly egg-shaped, and minus about
one-third of its spokes; no wonder I had thought the
road rather potholy for the last mile or two. That wheel
was rebuilt, and rebuilt, and rebuilt. Failing to sell that
hub, I gave it as a prize to a local club, and some joyful
innocent no doubt repeated my sorrows with it.
About this date I commenced a lurid career as a
consulting engineer - at least, that was how I viewed a
surprising request from the leading firm in the industry
that I would consent to make a prolonged test of their
new hush-hush two-speed hub, intended for the ensuing
season. My chest expanded, and I felt inches taller. The
entire machine was buckshee, and gorgeous to behold.
The first ride daunted me a little. There was no
clutch; one simply lifted the valve and pushed the gear
lever over from low to high, or vice versa. This sounds
simple enough, but there was a colossal difference between the two ratios; the top was apparently about 3 to
1, and the bottom about 12 to 1. With no clutch or
shock absorber, a most hideous jar was administered to
the person of the unlucky rider. The first time I slammed
in top gear, I felt as if a steam hammer were trying to
punch my backbone vertically out through the top of my
skull.
Worse was to follow. I arrived at Edge Hill, and
about ten yards up I threw the lever over to low gear,
rejoicing that today at least I should not have to pedal
my soul out. Ugh! The machine slowed in a foot from 18
m.p.h. to 2 m.p.h. My chin hit the bail handle of my
231
15. GEARS
acetylene lamp, my eyes filled with tears, and I felt as if
Tunney had taken a good hate against me, and slugged
me good and proper on the point of the jaw. I dismounted somehow, and staggered wanly about for three
or four minutes, after which I pushed off on bottom
gear, and for the rest of the day stopped my engine and
did a fresh run-and-jump start whenever a gear change
was indicated by the gradients. I sorrowfully returned the
machine to the factory at the week-end with some biting
comments on the gear. They gave me lunch in the directors’ room as a sop to my wounds; and during the meal
my pride was felled to the ground. “We weren’t sure
whether the gear would stand the rough changing which
our customers are sure to give it; and we thought that if
anybody could smash it up, you would.”
Then came the first three-speed hubs designed and
built by engineers. Unfortunately, these engineers’ previous experience was wholly in the cycling field, and they
had no idea of the far heavier stresses to be met when an
engine replaces the human calf muscles, or of the rough
usage to which motor bicycles are subjected. I was
deputed to ride a machine with such a gear in a big trial,
and it was delivered to me on the night before the start. I
sat up late, poring over the instructions. These were
fairly simple. The adjustment of the controls sounded
intricate, but after all, surely no adjustment could be
necessary to a new gear in the first week. What’s this?
Inject half a pint of light machine oil every 100 miles? It
was then 11 p.m. We were due to start at 6 a.m. And I
had no light machine oil. I dressed in a hurry, and explored the town in search of the lubricant. About 3 a.m. I
staggered back to bed, hugging a fat squirt and a large
tin can full of machine oil.
The next morning opened wet, and the first hill
stopped me with a wop - engine roaring, back wheel
motionless, and rivers of sweat pouring down between
my shoulders, after a gallant bout of pedalling in the
effort to save the gold medal which would be forfeited if
I stopped. All in vain! I dismounted, and studied the
machine. Probably belt slip. The belt felt tight enough.
Happy thought; start her up on the stand, and apply the
rear brake; if the belt holds, the engine will stop; if the
engine continues to run, the belt is slipping. Proud of this
brain-wave, I sweated the machine off the boulders to a
smooth island, and putting the bus on the stand, applied
my improvised test. On went the brake, and everything
232
15. GEARS
stopped together; apparently, the engine, brake and gear
had all seized simultaneously. Some two hours later I had
unseized the brake, and persuaded the clutch to grip.
Up the next hill I changed down, and found a perfectly free engine with the lever in the notch marked “2.”
Mercifully I decided to try the notch marked “2,” and
with the lever groping for this notch I found a gear of
some sort, apparently quite a low one; and on this I just
struggled up, without losing any more marks. At the top
I paused to investigate the precise significance of these
notches, and proved that though I had most admirable
free engines in notches 1 and 2 and 3, yet I had two
gears of unknown ratios somewhere between the various
notches.
As I was now well behind time, I struggled along
with a hand on the lever as far as lunch, where I got no
food but a lot of knowledge. Imprimis, I had left my can
of light machine oil on the first hill, and sundry dry
squeakings from the hub were a direct attempt on the
part of Providence to remind me of the fact. So I injected engine oil instead.
Secondly, the gear controls were now thoroughly
out of adjustment. There were lots and lots of them - one
on the lever, two on the hub, and another on the clutch
operating rod. If one experimented with them, it was
possible to obtain free engine positions all over the
place, and every now and then a gear could be felt in
action, only it was never opposite a notch, and apparently could not be induced to coincide with a notch.
Finally, I took the road again with one gear position
opposite a notch, and free engine everywhere else. Half a
mile convinced me that my solitary gear was top. Now
“top” on this particular type of hub was geared up from
middle, which was direct; and the direct drive being by
belt, top had a ratio of about 2-1/2 to 1, and might have
been serviceable for a 16 b.h.p. machine on the track
with lots of starter pushers, but was about as much use
to me with 1-3/4 h.p. on the road as a bed-warmer in the
infernal regions. Another long job on the road. I shortened all the controls by inches, and at last obtained two
gears, which were unquestionably middle and bottom.
Two miles from the night stop the hub finally developed
a permanent free wheel both ways in all positions of the
controls; and I pettishly pitched the bus into a train.
233
Zeniths Barred
These experiences bred a somewhat cynical attitude
towards gears of the invisible type, and about the same time
the Zenith machines established an extraordinary supremacy
in hill climbs. In fact, they won everything for which they
were entered, so that club secretaries who desired to replenish their coffers with entry fees, had to announce that Zenith
bikes were barred from their events. To which the Zenith
people retorted by printing huge black bars across their
advertisements in The Motor Cycle. This supremacy was
attained by an adjustable pulley gear, affording ratios from
say 4 to 7 to 1, the belt slack being taken up by bodily
sliding the rear wheel in special fork ends.
The gear was operated by a coffee-grinder type of
handle, and if a really big engine was used, the correct ratio
for almost any speed hill could be used. I bought one - an 8
h.p. I think. Now I had never before ridden such a fast bus.
I had never heard of speed wobble. I supposed that Zeniths
were invincible because their riders continuously raised the
gear fractionally all the way up the hill, as the engine accelerated. (We all thought in those days that a high gear was
essential to high speed.) I tuned the engine up splendidly,
and resolved to try my luck in a minor speed climb. When
15. GEARS
my turn came, I got away to a perfect start with the gear at
its lowest, and in a hundred yards or so I was really moving
- probably about 6o m.p.h. The time had evidently come to
do some coffee-grinding. I darted my right hand off the bar,
seized the knob of the gear control, and rotated it furiously.
The bus instantly went into a lurid wobble, and snaked
onwards at nearly 70. Back flew my hand to the bar, but it
was too late. The wobble had become irresistible. The bus
snaked on in convolutions of ever increasing pitch, and in a
second or two I described a lovely parabola over the
handlebar. Tucking my head into my tummy, I tolled like a
tennis ball across the turf at the side of the road, and finished up miraculously unharmed. But the poor Zenith . . .
However, I had learnt my lesson. After rebuilding, the
bus earned me a number of prizes. But hardly ever again did
I coffee-grind it at sixty. I made a few preliminary tests,
found the gear which suited the grade in question, and went
up with both hands attending to their proper duty - i.e.,
steering.
At long last Messrs. Sturmey and Archer - is there
really an Archer? - came along, and saved the motor
cyclists of a later age any such sufferings as we pioneers
underwent.
234
16. TYRES
XVI. TYRES
FOR sheer extreme blasphemy there has never been
such a provocative as tyres. Yet, when all is said and
done, we have never gone through a tithe of what car
owners used to suffer. The first cars introduced into this
country boasted at least one asset of real value - their
tyres could never be repaired by the roadside. They were
solid rings of rubber with a pair of elastic steel wires
built into the rubber. These wires formed a circle of
slightly less diameter than the wheel rim. How the tyre
was ever put on, I do not know; I can only guess that the
wheel was placed inside a giant refrigerator until it shrank
sufficiently to pass under the tyre. On the road mishaps
were, obviously of a final character, for the wires broke,
the tyre snapped across, and came off. It might wrap
one end round the axle, and lash the crew with its free
end, but it never did this to me, always dropping gently
off on to the road. With pneumatics our purgatory began. We were always being gladdened with advertisements of an unpuncturable tyre, but they were never
much use. My chiefest agony occurred late one night on
Romney Marsh with a huge prehistoric Daimler. It had
Collier tyres with several inches of solid rubber for their
tread. One of them punctured, and we discovered that
the tyre was attached to the wheel rim as follows.
In-serted in the beads of the cover were 48 small steel
threaded studs. Drilled in the wheel rim were 48 holes.
You pushed the 48 studs through the 48 holes, slipped
on 48 washers and 96 nuts. Further, the tyre itself was
about as bendable as a crowbar.
Motor bicycles at this date were mostly shod with 2in. Clincher tyres, as light and flexible as a kid glove, and
quite easy to manage. They were not much thicker than
the tongue of a golf shoe, and could be punctured by a
small thorn. But in practice punctures were genuinely
rare, so far as the road itself was concerned. This is
rather surprising, but the cause probably was that roads
were soft and not very smooth, so that tintacks and
horse nails got no real purchase against which to push;
they lay sideways on the mushy surface of the soft road,
and did us less harm than on the hard, smooth tarmac of
today. On the other hand, our tyres were frequently done
in by some eccentricity on the part of the machine. The
wheel, for instance, was perfectly capable of dissolving,
and after a few spokes had gone west, the hub would be
forced out of centre, and a spoke would push up into
235
16. TYRES
the tube. Or the rear brake would come adrift. Or the
carrier would collapse, and force a mudguard stay into
the tyre. Or the mudguard itself (a regular occurrence)
would go west and cut the tyre before one could pull up.
But the tyres themselves were the best part of the machine. They carried little weight, the drive was velvety,
the speed was low, and the acceleration cautious. I once
accomplished 15,000 miles on a pair of these thin
Clincher covers, and I doubt if I had more than three
punctures in the distance.
Early Tyre Repairs
When trouble occurred with tyres in the very early
days, it could be spelt with a capital T for several reasons. No stand was ever provided, and we bought triangular trestles of light steel rod, which served the dual
purpose of stand and carrier. They were pivoted on the
rear spindle. For use as a carrier, you swung them up
and fastened them by a short strap to the tail of the
saddle. For use as a stand, you unloaded all luggage pyjamas, tools, a salmon for Aunt Mary, spare belts,
reserve lamp, etc., etc. - and swung the trestle downwards. The next step was to cast adrift the rear brake, a
Bowden horseshoe, which at best enjoyed rather a precarious lodgment on the rear forks. If you unscrewed the
two nuts on the ends of the rear spindle, and the wheel
dropped out, it could then be removed to a grassy bank
(if fine), or under a railway bridge (if wet), for the purposes of repair. The actual repair demanded extreme
care. Modern quick-drying rubber solutions were unknown; the solution of the day took a very long time to
dry, and the patch was very apt to peel off if the tyre got
hot, either through such speed as we could achieve or
through standing in the sun. We used to apply three thin
coats of solution to both tube and, patch and let each
dry for ten minutes or so before application; even then,
the success of the repair was something of a gamble.
Dust further complicated the business. The entire machine would be heavily filmed with grey grit in the era
before road tarring commenced, and many of the spicules would be quite equal to puncturing a thin motor
cycle tube; so one started operations by dusting the
wheel most scrupulously. Passing cars would deposit a
fresh layer of grit over everything, so that after
solutioning tube and patch, we had to protect them
during the drying process with our caps and coats.
236
16. TYRES
A Step Forward
There followed an intermediate period in which tyre
repair became simpler than it will ever be again. The shoe
brake inside the belt rim was invented before gears came
along. So by simply undoing two nuts on the ends of the
spindle, the back wheel could be taken out in a few
seconds, and a spare tube slipped into position. At one
swoop the delay due to a puncture was thus cut from the
best part of an hour to perhaps three minutes. During
this chapter of history everybody carried spare tubes.
The dandies stored them in patent cases of one sort or
another; the die-hards looped them round their waists or
shoulders. On important occasions-trials or road
records-we never dreamt of starting without a spare
cover aboard. The lightness of the covers can be gauged
from the fact that we pressed them out flat, doubled
them over, and packed them like a newspaper on the flat
top of the carrier under our luggage.
Then chain drive came along, and the drop-out
wheel disappeared for many a year. Solution was still
chancey stuff, and tyres were rather stationary, and
hardly equal to the speed and weight of our machines.
Wheels could not readily be taken out, and a puncture
became a very formidable, matter indeed. The remedy
took the form of butt-ended tubes. In a trial one could
see a machine begin to bump, the rider cast an agonized
glance downwards and astern, rap out a horrid oath, and
leap off. He instantly produced a knife, exposed the
tube, and cut it across. From some private receptacle he
would then produce a long rubber sausage, and fit it in
place of the bisected and punctured tube. The best of
these handy devices was the Rich, which had open ends
with rubber-locking collars; properly handled, the joint
was air-tight, provided that the tube was properly blown
up, and the joint sealed with a smear of a special jelly.
But if the tyre began to deflate, one was never sure
whether the jelly had dried, or if there was a new pinhole
puncture somewhere. Other tyre firms preferred tubes
with closed ends, and a male to female joint. These were
excellent when new, but the closed ends would “work”
against each other, and chafe through. Altogether, the
hard rider usually kept up a postal seesaw with his tyre
factory-bisected endless tubes en route to be converted
to butt-enders, and faulty butt-enders being sent for
repair. The cost was quite a heavy item in a trial rider’s
weekly expenses.
237
16. TYRES
Skidding
Sideslip was, of course, much more worrying in the
old days. The machines were top-heavy, and their drives
were apt to be rough. In certain counties the mud was
naturally gritty, and gave good tyre adhesion; in others,
the soil was slimy when damp, and your machine would
lie down at the least provocation. High saddle position
gave one very little chance to save oneself by an extended foot. In South Devon, for example, real caution
was necessary, for even in dry weather there would be
slime at any corner beneath trees; the slime might be
quite deep and well rutted; and if a modern machine
would take no notice of such going, the heavy topsawyers of those days never missed a chance to lie
down. We used to finish long trials with sore hips,
banged into bruises as the machine slipped from under
us. Ere long we began to ask that our tyres should protect us against these heavy skids. The best of them all
was the Palmer, which had a trebly ribbed tread.
But as tyres were still very small, this tread fitted
tram-lines as if it had been made for the purpose. You
may see agony written on the human face in war; in
hospitals; at the finish of a cross-country race; but I have
seldom seen such agony as a rider of the early days would
display when he got a nice, high, giraffey sort of machine
with both wheels dead straight and deep in a worn tram-line
; nor have I lately heard such a crash as he would produce
when he and his ironmongery came down whonk on the
stone Betts in which tram-lines were laid.
The Puncture Bogey
Tyres soon became the chief bugbear of competition work. To this day a tyre burst at high speed is the
nightmare of the racing man; and we only hear little of
this risk because modern tyres are so good. Times without number I have had a tyre burst at the fifties and
sixties which used to be our maxima, and have had a
breath-catching struggle to slow the machine before it
crashed. Not a few men were killed at Brooklands and in
the Isle of Man from no other cause. In reliability work
success was practically impossible unless one was a
first-class hand at tyre repairs. Nowadays punctures are
very rare, and a quick and lasting repair is possible,
whilst the machines are fast enough to make up for the
time lost in a repair. Years ago, we were so slow and
uncertain in our climbing that even at the modest pace
required of us, a single puncture often meant the loss of
238
16. TYRES
a gold medal. If we punctured, we leapt off and laboured
like maniacs, perhaps in our flurry nipping the tube when
we put it back, or excoriating it in the chain-sprocket as
we turned the wheel. If we did not puncture, we rode like
demons on leaving each check, so that if a puncture
befel us, there might be some hope of repairing it inside
our time allowance.
For many a long year motor bicycles had rigid and
springless front forks. Quite obviously, discomfort
would be acute if the front tyre were blown up to the
pressure advised by its maker. So we ran our front tyres
as soft as we dared, and they punctured at least as often
as the rear tyre - probably oftener.
In a Six Days trial whenever we had a few moments
to spare outside a checking station, we pored earnestly
over our tyres. If you saw a competitor, sitting meditatively at night with a sullen face in the corner of a hotel
bar, whilst his friends were rejoicing over their brief
escape from effort, you might be sure that he had noticed a doubtful spot on one of his tyres. He would be
wondering whether to chance continuing without a tyre
change on the morrow. Before the start we were all
allowed a short time for adjustments without penalty.
If some of his mates were willing to replenish his
tanks, adjust his brakes, tighten up all his small fittings
and so forth, he could probably fit a new cover without
loss of marks by toiling like a demon. But medals were
sometimes lost through this job taking longer than one
anticipated; for standardization had not commenced, and
neither wheels nor tyres were necessarily of the size
which they were supposed to be. The new tyre might
drop on to the rim and roll off of its own accord in a
mile or two; or, on the other hand, it might take three
strong men, sweating blood, to lever it over the rim.
As a rule, we preferred to fit a new cover in the
shelter of the official garage. On such occasions the
unlucky wight who was due to fit a new tyre next morning was the object of general sympathy. He was early
outside the garage doors next morning, and his pals kept
the crowd back while he poised himself for a dive into
the yard the instant the gates were unlocked. One held
his coat and vest and overalls; half stripped for
Herculean effort, he leapt at his machine when the clock
struck, and friendly hands attended to its mechanical
needs whilst he swore and sweated at the tyre.
239
I myself have changed the rear cover seven times in a
Six Days trial without losing a mark. In fact, the tyre bogey
interfered so seriously with the data of mechanical tests that
the authorities introduced facilities for repairing or changing
tyres without penalty twice a day. In one trial at least, everybody was en-couraged to change both tyres after the third
day. Tyre makers have now risen to the occasion, so that
punctures are comparatively unknown.
Oddly enough, one of my very latest tyre stops was
as long as any in my existence. I took out a brand new
machine the other day for a four mile run. Two miles
from my door the back wheel began to bump, and I got
off. The trouble was obviously in the valve, and I pulled
it out. The tiny rubber sleeve had obviously been long in
stock at the factory, had perished, and remained behind
in the barrel portion of the valve which is fixed to the
tube. I had no tie-pin or other small probe with which to
get it out. The road was lonely, and I waited a long time
before anybody appeared, when at last a pretty girl hove
in sight pushing her cycle up the hill. Assuming my most
ingratiating expression, I walked coaxingly towards her.
There had been a brutal murder in the neighbourhood a
few weeks before, and the miscreant had not been
16. TYRES
traced. She hesitated. Finally, as I drew nearer she took
fright, turned her machine round, scrambled on to the
saddle, and pedalled off for dear life. (Mopping my
heated brow, I had got some chain grease on my face.)
Another long wait. Nobody came. So at last I
climbed a small hill, sighted a cottage some fields away,
and went off to borrow a pin. Armed with a nice fat hatpin, I trudged back, and cleared the barrel of the valve.
Another trudge to return the hat-pin. On my return, there
proved to be a crumb of rubber in the fine hole of the
valve itself. Another long wait. Another trudge, and a thin
needle at last cleared out the last obstruction. Back to the
machine. Alas, fate had a fresh blow in store, for there
was no spare valve rubber in my repair outfit. Loud and
hearty maledictions on all merchants who put up tyre
repair kits devoid of this essential.
At long last the local policeman happened along on
his bike, and produced some rubber sleeving. Ever since
I have taken a meticulous interest in the condition of my
tyre valves and repair kit.
THE END
240
Advertizers
ADVERTISEMENT INDEX.
Beart H. & Co., Ltd.
Co-operative Insurance Society, Ltd.
Hooley’s Garage ix H.R.D. Motors Ltd.
Lycetts, Ltd..
Miller H. & Co., Ltd. .
Morgan Motor Co., Ltd..
New Imperial Motors, Ltd.
North British Publicity & Distributing Co., Ltd..
Premier Silencer Co., Ltd. v Rey’s, Ltd. .
Shearman’s (Noxal Sidecars) .
Stevens A. J. & Co. (1914), Ltd.
241
Advertizers
242
Advertizers
243
Advertizers
244
Advertizers
245
Advertizers
246

Ixion - The United Sidecar Association

Transcription

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